I had established dominance through swift violence, but relying solely on fear was inefficient. I needed information, and eventually, perhaps, controlled compliance if they proved remotely useful. Before anything else, however, I needed confirmation of the target they'd vaguely described – the local predator known as 'Skinner'nick name. Trusting purely on the word of the thugs was not good. Verification was paramount for a clean operation.
I glanced at the nearly empty bottle of lukewarm cola he'd retrieved from his plastic bag. An idea surfaced – a minor psychological reinforcement. I commented dryly, holding out the bottle. "It is medicine for the poison i made eat you." I watched impassively as the leader hesitated, then took a reluctant sip, grimacing at the unfamiliar flat, overly sweet taste before passing it on. The other two drank with similar apprehension. Their confusion and distaste were genuine, reinforcing the mundane reality of the drink while subtly linking it to his earlier implied threat of 'medicine'. The poison bluff remained viable for now.
They think that if they got my cola they will free from me again, but it very small bottle there is only some left ,they don't act until they got information how i got it or how to made it, poor fellows they definetly don't get information for life time.
"I Need local knowledge," I shifted topic smoothly while their guards were down. "Customs, taboos. Things that scream 'outsider'."
The leader, perhaps emboldened by the seemingly innocuous offering, exchanged nervous looks with his companions. "Uh… well… don't disrespect the Dragon, obviously," he offered hesitantly. "Never a good idea. And… it's real bad luck to speak the name of the Witch of Envy aloud. Brings misfortune they say and guards wil arrest you."
"Witch of Envy?" I asked curiously.
"Satella they say," the second thug whispered, looking around nervously as if the name itself was dangerous. "The old tales… say she nearly swallowed the world in shadow centuries ago. Pure jealousy. Destroyed kingdoms. A calamity."
"They say she hates half-elves especially," the leader added grimly. "Because she was one. Just hearing her name… it attracts dark things. Best avoided. All the old Witches – Greed, Gluttony, Wrath… they're just synonyms for disaster."
'Witches of Sin. Satella, the Jealous Witch. World-altering calamity. Potential half-elf connection causing prejudice if there any,' I filed the fragments away. 'Dangerous folklore, likely rooted in historical trauma. Worth remembering.' I briefly recalled pocketing a small piece of smooth, dark metal glinting amidst debris during my walk through the slums earlier – an instinctive grab, potentially useless, but now stored away.
"This 'Skinner' you mentioned earlier," I stated, turning my attention back to the leader. "Point me towards his usual places or is dwelling."
The leader nervously indicated a general direction deeper into the Undercroft's maze in there threv a guy he's lanky.
"Right," I acknowledged. "Listen carefully." MY voice became flat, chillingly devoid of inflection. "You three will remain in your house. Rest. Do not leave your house. Do not attempt to warn anyone. I will be back. If I return, and you are not here…" I let the threat hang unfinished, more potent than specifics. "Understand?"
Frantic nods were his only answer.
I turned and slipped away in those maze like slums ,rejecting the obvious thought of using them for surveillance. 'Sending these known, injured locals to follow Skinner would be amateurish. He'd spot them instantly if he possesses even minimal competence. Compromises the objective. I require my own verification.'
I moved silently through the awakening slum, Like a phantom navigating the familiar squalor towards the area the leader had indicated.I followed him quickly and quitely.
I emerged from the suffocating density of the Undercroft slums as the first true rays of dawn painted the sky. The way to the main city was jarring – wider streets, better-maintained stone buildings, the smells shifting from decay to bakeries and commerce. Following the so called'skinner', I began his surveillance, melting into the growing morning crowds with practiced ease. Years spent observing human patterns made blending in second nature.ive seen him clearly.
Jarl, nicknamed 'Skinner'. Lanky, almost unnaturally thin, draped in ill-fitting pieces of blackened leather over dark, functional clothing. A cheap-looking short sword hung at his hip. The constant, unsettling smile stretched his thin lips but never reached his cold, darting eyes. He moved with a wired confidence that seemed out of place for a mere slum dweller. 'Operating outside his territory. Why?'
Skinner entered a bustling tavern. I found a discreet observation post across the street, using a crowded merchant stall as cover. I didn't approach closer; My modern clothing, while not causing panic, still marked him as diffeIt. After an hour, Skinner emerged, accompanied by a portly man dressed in silks that shouted wealth. They spoke briefly near the entrance before the portly man passed Skinner a small, heavy pouch. Coin, almost certainly. A payoff. The portly man hurried away towards a richer district. Skinner pocketed the pouch, his smile widening, before heading towards a noticeably more upscale restaurant I couldn't afford to enter. 'Transaction confirmed. Received payment, now celebrating. From whom? For what?' I logged the portly man's appearance mentally – a secondary target for later investigation. Skinner was the priority.
After a lengthy meal, Skinner began to wander the market streets again, his movements initially seeming random. But I quickly detected the underlying pattern. Skinner wasn't browsing; he was hunting. His gaze repeatedly lingered on solitary child, aged around ten to twelve who appeared momentarily unattended. I felt a cold prickle of confirmation.
'He needs underlings for whatever he's planning. Where are they?' I scanned the crowded square Skinner seemed to be favouring. He soon spotted them – at least two other men, dressed slightly better than common labourers but attempting to blend in, subtly coordinating their positions with Skinner, their eyes also occasionally flicking towards the same potential targets. I needed a better angle. Spotting a narrow service alley beside a three-story tenement, he waited for a surge in the crowd, then slipped into the alley unnoticed. The climb was easier than expected; his younger body felt surprisingly light and agile. He found a secure perch on the rooftop, concealed behind a crumbling stone gargoyle, granting him a commanding view.
From above, the operation became chillingly clear. Skinner and his two visible accomplices were subtly creating a net around a specific target: a young boy engrossed by a stall selling intricate, colourful glass figurines. They weI't overtly threatening, just… positioning. Waiting.
The trigger came suddenly. Down the street, a loud, staged argument erupted between two men (likely more associates), complete with exaggerated shouting and shoving, effectively drawing the attention of most nearby shoppers and stallholders. Simultaneously, one of Skinner's accomplices near the glass stall 'accidentally' dropped a small, brightly coloured wooden bird toy right at the edge of the stall's space, near the boy. As the boy, momentarily distracted by the commotion but noticing the fallen toy, innocently stepped forward to pick it up, the other accomplice moved with blinding speed. He darted forward, clamped a hand firmly over the boy's mouth stifling any sound, scooped him up, and vanished into the mouth of a nearby dark alleyway before the crowd's focus even shifted back from the staged argument. It was brutally efficient, terrifyingly practiced. Skinner and the first accomplice simply melted back into the dispersing crowd, their expressions blank. The City Guards patrolling further down the street were still dealing with the tail end of the fake fight, completely oblivious.
A surge of cold fury, reminiscent of the feeling when slavery was mentioned, gripped I. 'Intervene now? Surprise attack possible. Likely three, maybe more hidden.' The assessment was instantaneous. . Neutralizing these few achieves nothing long-term. The network remains. I Must identify the base, the buyers, the scope..' This single abduction was merely a start..
Suppressing the visceral urge to act, I descended from the rooftop as silently as I climbed. I picked up the trail of the accomplice carrying the now-limp, likely drugged or chloroformed, boy. He followed them through a twisting route of back alleys, eventually arriving at a secluded stable yard well away from the main market.
What I witnessed there solidified the horror and the scale. It wasn't just the one boy. Waiting in the yard were several other men, and lined up against a wall were nearly twenty burlap sacks, roughly child-sized, some twitching faintly. 'They didn't just take one. This is an organized mass abduction operation.' Anger, cold and sharp, threatened to overwhelm my discipline for the second time that day. 'Control,' I reminded himself savagely. 'Emotion compromises judgment.' I forced himself to observe, memorizing every face, every detail. The men worked quickly, laughing and joking about the ease of their work, confirming my assessment of their confidence and complacency.
A large, sturdy wagon, pulled by one of the giant lizards, rolled into the yard. It bore an ornate crest on its side – complex scrollwork surrounding a roaring feline head. 'Noble house? Major merchant guild? Significant resources and protection implied.' The men began tossing the sacks into the wagon with callous disregard. Just before the wagon was covered, I saw one of the men – not Skinner, someone else – murmur something and wave a hand over the sacks. A faint, silvery mist emanated from his palm, settling over the cargo. The faint twitching stopped entirely. 'Magic'
The covered wagon trundled out of the yard, receiving only bored waves from the City Guards stationed at the district exit. Important person wagon. I followed the wagon on foot, using every ounce of my stealth and undetectedness.
The wagon eventually stopped outside a large, cheerfully painted sweet shop on a bustling commercial street. The incongruity was jarring. The shop owner, a plump man radiating false bonhomie, came out to briefly exchange words with the driver. He then unlocked a heavy, reinforced door set into the wall beside the main shop entrance, revealing steps leading down into what was likely a large cellar or warehouse. The kidnappers quickly and efficiently unloaded the sacks into this hidden entrance under the owner's supervision. Once empty, the wagon departed. Two of the men took up casual positions near the warehouse door. I recognized the nearby patrolling guards; they exchanged friendly nods with the shop owner, completely ignoring the suspicious activity. 'Complicity runs deep.'
He saw Skinner confer briefly with the shop owner, receive another nod, then departed, that perpetual unsettling smile fixed on his face as he headed back towards the slums.
I watched him go, My expression hardening into glacial resolve. 'Skinner dies tonight. No exceptions.' The warehouse was the hub, the child likely held there until further transport. Delivery wouldn't be immediate; too risky during the day. They'd wait for night or they, or perhaps the next day.
I found a high, shadowed rooftop overlooking both the sweet shop facade and, crucially, the alleyway leading to the warehouse entrance. I settled in, his anger now channelled into a cold, focused determination. The observation phase was concluded. Planning shifted to execution.
As dusk began to settle, painting the city in shades of orange and purple, I remained perfectly still, a predator waiting for the deepest darkness.
The real hunt was about to begin.