I'm not motivated by pity, though. Fact is, I just can't stand the rain. The stinkin' rain that pours down every damned morning like the sewage of the gods. Some of the old songs of my people tell of cleansing rains, life-giving rains. But here in Elftown, the rain just makes everything filthier, if that's possible. Muddier and more foul.

Alvar's probably dead. Yesterday morning he was jabbering about rising up against the humans. I cuffed him pretty hard. If one of the city guards caught him talking like that, his throat would have been slashed quicker than a fisher gutting a saltwater pike. And then his family would be hunted down and killed too, if he had one. Every so often, talk of revolt simmers up and the blades of the humans send a red tide through Elftown.

Life is no dance in the woods when you live in the elven ghetto of a human city. Elftown's an old prisoner of war camp turned slum, home to the city's foulest industries, smelting and tanning. It's a grim place. Clean air is just a sylvan dream here. Beauty is just as rare.

We elves are not allowed to leave, a restriction enforced by well-armed and armored soldiers on walls that guard inward. When I was Alvar's age, I dreamed of escape too. I swore that someday I would climb that wall and slink through the city gates to disappear into the countryside. Or swim underwater through the harbor gate unseen by the archers in the mole fort. Hopeless dreams of a foolish child. You try to escape, you die. It's that simple.

I dream smaller now. A more cynical dream perhaps, but also more attainable: that someday I may get good enough at brewing ale so that it doesn't taste like piss. So that someday I can scrabble out a slightly better existence as a tavern owner.

But today isn't someday. Today, I am a hired sword. An enforcer sworn to the service of Jet, one of a half-dozen elven ward bosses building petty empires in the gritty mists of Elftown. It pays well, for here. Enough that I don't have to take a shift at the blast furnaces or the tannery vats or in the port. Enough to eat and live in my own little square box in a tenement that probably won't collapse for at least a few more years. Enough to drink and whore when I feel like it. And the opportunity to scavenge something extra, here and there.

A sharp rap at the door twists my hunger. "About damned time," I mutter. I am tempted not to share the loaf with Alvar today, as punishment for his lateness.

But the voice that calls through the door isn't Alvar's.

"Arquë?" It is harsh and adult. And uncertain.

"Yeah, this is Arq," I answer abruptly, reaching for my cutting sword. "What's your business?"

"Jet sent me. You're wanted."

Great. No bread for me this morning, then. And I have to go out in the rain anyway.

"Hold on," I call out. "Just gotta get dressed." I pull on my tunic and reach for my leather cuirass.

"Can you hurry up? I'm getting stinkin' soaked out here!"

"Save your piss for the piss-pot on the corner," I reply, buckling on the cuirass. Jet uses his greenest recruits for messengers. I owe this guy no respect. Jet himself is best not kept waiting, though. I don a hooded cloak and slip out into the street, locking the door behind me. I don't bother to wait for the messenger. He half-runs through the slimy mud to catch up and walk beside me. 

An escort, eh? This can't be good.