The Rat Cleaver strode through the dark street completely unaware he was being shadowed. He was a short, stocky man with thick, scarred arms. His face was small, his eyes cold, cunning and cruel. Urchins sprang away as he passed, and the men and women of the night paled and quickly withdrew when he smiled his sharp, sinister teeth at them.

He laughed as they fled; his voice was entirely too high for someone who looked so grim. On his head was a brown leather cap and his body was clad in a coat made up of small, coarsely sewn furs. Likely those of a rat if the man's name was anything to go by. Belted by his side was the second origin of his alias, a crude meat cleaver almost two feet long.

Strutting besides a gutter, the Rat Cleaver made his way to a door. Without warning he spun, sweeping his brutish blade in a wide arc behind him. When the sharp edge met only air and rain, he stared around furtively, searching for his hidden foe. He spat, then rubbed his leather cap before uttering a curse.

"Rat bastard."

He stood there a few seconds longer before calling out in a sing-song manner. "Come on out, little rat. Little rat, come on here. Come and play, little rat. Little rat, have no fear."

A shiver went down Fritz's spine at the awful tune, and strangely his legs made to move. Swiftly he stiffened his limbs, stopping himself from stepping out from behind the chimney he hid behind. This was the effect of an Ability or Treasure, one akin to a siren's song, if not nearly as beautiful. Control saved him from a short walk and a nasty fall, no doubt helped by his Gold Award Reignbreaker.

The gang boss sang in that trilling croak again. "Where is the little rat? Little rat, don't hide. You're out there, little rat. Little rat, that spies."

Fritz resisted the enchanting power of the rhyme, but below him a thickly scaled rat, at least the size of his forearm, swam out of a slowly sloshing gutter. It waddled sluggishly up to the man, its head slightly swaying. To and fro.

"There is the little rat. Little rat, so slows. Go to sleep now, little rat. Little rat will doze."

The patchy vermin did as was sung, lying down at the man's feet.

"No pain for, little rat. Little rat, won't feel. The cleaver coming, little rat. Little rat, won't squeal."

The rat went limp, and the thug seized it by the tail and lifted it. It hung there unmoving, and the man grinned, then slung it over his shoulder. He took one last look at the empty street around him, then at the rooftops.

His eyes slid right over where Fritz was hiding, and with a huff and another rub of his leather cap he turned back to the door. He pulled out a key and unlocked and opened it before stepping in and descending into the wet dark.

Fritz let out a steady exhalation and considered his next steps. He wanted to follow the Rat Cleaver, finish what he came for. The man and his gang had been more than a thorn in his side these past days, he wasn't satisfied with simply shaking down the residents, he had been ambushing the carpenters, gutter clearers and other workers the Council had hired to fix the Refuge.

Blood had been spilt, innocents killed or maimed, and Fritz wouldn't suffer that any further.

The assaults had driven many away, and those who could be convinced to continue only did so after a substantial increase in their pay and an assurance that the rumoured Scarlet Shade would take revenge for any more attacks.

And so Fritz was here, determined to cut the head off the eel that had been biting the folk he had sworn to protect. There was a small problem, though: the Rat Cleaver was a paranoid wanderer, with as many nests as he had pelts stitched into his coat.

Fritz watched and waited for half an hour before lowering himself and circling the building the gang boss had walked into. He pulsed his Awareness, searching for other doors, but found none. Most of the rooms seemed to be below ground and there was only the singular entrance. However, there was a small window. Unfortunately, it was far too small for Fritz to fit through and it was barred from the other side.

There was no other way inside, so he crept to the door and placed an ear on the wood. He heard quiet chittering and the distant thunk of a cleaver splitting flesh and bone. Fritz pulled out his lockpicks and made quick work of the lock. The door creaked open and he slipped into the dark. There were stairs leading down and he took them slowly and carefully, relying on Trap Sense to warn him of any rotting, weak wood.

It was nearly pitch black, but he could see clearly. As there was no lantern or other light ahead, it was apparent that the Rat Cleaver also had no such trouble either, meaning that he had at least his Bronze award from the Sunken Spire, perhaps more. Fritz continued his descent, guiding his Grace down his legs and to his feet so as to keep his steps as soft as could be.

The stench of blood, old and new, wafted from the depths on a sticky, cool breeze.

Soon he had reached a short, damp hallway. There was a door to his left and right as well as one right in front. As soon as he moved towards the right one, he heard a sound.

"What was that, Hat?" The Rat Cleaver asked. His too-high voice hissed down the hall from some distant room ahead.

There was no answering voice, but he replied as if he heard another speaker.

"A big rat? A big spy? Really, Hat? Haha. My lucky night. A small rat and a big rat. I'll eat well for weeks. Let's get the trap ready."

Fritz heard some shuffling, a clunk, a stifled chuckle, then silence.

Was the man mad? Fritz wondered. And if he was, who would follow such a crazed, violent thug?

Then again, he mused, the gangs ruled through strength and fear rather than sound strategy. Despite the Rat Cleaver's off-putting, almost ridiculous appearance, he was deadly. And that meat cleaver had claimed more necks and chopped more limbs than could be counted. Truly a bloody, monstrous reputation, the only one that even came close to that of the Cutter.

Fritz slunk forward, drawing Mortal Edge. He closed in on where he heard the voice, pulsing Awareness every other silent step. Standing before a doorframe covered by a curtain made of a dingy linen sheet, Fritz halted and listened further.

Not for the first time, he contemplated leaving. The Rat Cleaver was already alerted somehow, so he had lost most of the advantages an ambush would confer.

There was a whimper from behind the curtain. Looking through a small hole in the fabric, Fritz saw another door on the left side of the room beyond, this one heavy and braced with rusted iron.

Then there was a whispered warning, rough but feminine. "Don't make a sound, or he'll come."

"But I'm starving."

"You'll be worse than starving when the Rat Cleaver grabs you."

"He's not so big. I could throw him off."

"Bloody idiot."

Fritz recognised one of the voices. The arsonist Bull. Apparently, he hadn't been drowned as was ordered. Somehow he'd been spared his deserved fate.

"Hush now, little rats. The cleaver will end all the suffering when it's ready," the Rat Cleaver chided, scraping his blade along the stone floor with a dull screech.

There was a loud thud and the door rattled on its sturdy hinges. Water dripped from overhead, shaken from the leaky roof. The Rat Cleaver laughed. Fritz took advantage of the distraction, swiftly passing under the curtain and behind a crate. A crate, he realised, was half full of bones. There weren't only small animal skulls within, but those of humans as well. His stomach churned.

The gang boss noticed something amiss and spun. Insane eyes darted from the still softly swinging linen to a barrel, to the crate Fritz hid behind before locking onto another large barrel. He slowly retreated. He may have been a madman, but it also made him unreasonably cautious, which could only be a boon in the gutters.

The man slunk away, crouching and hiding himself amongst other crates and barrels, prowling, cleaver in hand, ready to leap. Fritz wove Lethargy over him while he was still visible. The villain flinched and spun his head around furtively, then sped out of the cluttered room, behind another curtain, this one stained horribly with old blood.

The stink of raw and rotten meat poured from that room, and Fritz's already churning stomach seized and his gorge rose. He suppressed a retch.

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Sweat beaded on his brow, and with his free hand he wiped it away.

Fritz knew better than to follow right away, so he waited, considering his strategy while he scanned the room. It was filled with crates, bottles, barrels and kegs. Some were broken and some were filled with various foul 'trophies', pelts, skins and bones. In the centre of the room was a rug, under which Fritz could feel a trapdoor and the vague impression of a long drop.

An eye peeked out from the bloodied curtain, then it disappeared.

Fritz didn't choose to move, he could wait for Lethargy to take its toll. While one activation wasn't enough to put someone to sleep, it would make them sluggish. Although if he could cast it on the man a couple of times and trick him into using Stamina draining Abilities, that crazed thug could collapse into unconsciousness.

There was also the option of releasing the captives, though that might reveal his location. Fritz didn't know how the Rat Cleaver knew he was there, if he actually did and wasn't simply mad, but assumed it was a Passive Sense, Treasure, or perhaps an Awareness of his own. It was an infuriating happenstance; however, at least the thug didn't know his exact location and was acting on imprecise impressions. That much was clear from his behaviour.

Fritz decided to wait. There was no need to rush, there were no reinforcements coming for the Rat Cleaver, and with the advantages Fritz held, he knew he'd be triumphant. He just needed patience.

Time passed, nine minutes, then ten. Fritz's legs and back felt stiff from holding his crouched position behind the clutter. He wondered if the thug was still lying in wait, as he hadn't seen him stare out from the holes in the curtain for a while.

He slid a hand into a crate and fished out a bone. He threw it at the stained linen. It struck with a dull thump. In the same moment, a dim light shone, and the thick blade of the cleaver flashed through the cloth. Half of the curtain fell away, both it and the bone dropping to the stone, bisected cleanly.

The Rat Cleaver jumped out from the doorway and swung wildly at the empty air. Fritz wove another lethargy over the man.

He cursed and screeched with fury.

"Where are you?! Get out here, big rat!"

Fritz remained where he was. Though he may have been able to beat him in a fair fight, why would he want to risk it when he could wait the madman out?

Unfortunately, the Rat Cleaver wouldn't let him. With a scream, he began to slice his way through all the crates and barrels, which would leave Fritz no place to hide. Still, he didn't dare move, not yet. The sounds of chopping and splintering wood filled the room, drawing ever closer to him. As another yell sounded and only a clatter and a cleaving could be heard, Fritz slipped behind another barrel, further away from his pursuer.

Fritz cursed himself for not bringing his crossbow, again. One well-aimed bolt would have made this whole endeavour far easier. He promised himself to make sure to take it from where it hung in his personal armoury the next time he was stalking someone or expected trouble of the deadly sort.

Still mindful of the present, Fritz continued avoiding the Rat Cleaver, slinking into the entrance hallway as some of the last places to hide were destroyed. The thug bellowed, turning this way and that, huffing and puffing. His limbs had lost much of their vigour and his eyes, though furious, were weary.

Another curse and his shoulders hunched.

Muttering and mumbling, the gang boss retreated back into the room hidden by the halved curtain. There was the slamming of a door, the thunk of a heavy lock and the grinding of something heavy being dragged. Then there was quiet, except some whispers coming from the captives.

Fritz was certain the Rat Cleaver had holed himself up, but he made his way cautiously through the rooms anyway.

He listened intently for danger, catching some of the conversation between Bull and the woman confined behind a door to his left. It was all useless talk, of course, they wondered what was happening, but bemoaned that even if something happened to their gaoler they would be left to starve.

They weren't an optimistic pair, that much was certain.

Fritz ignored them, making his way forward and peering past the cut curtain. What he found was a room made for butchery, there was a long table, bloody and bitten many times by a blade's edge. And although he wanted to ignore them, he saw manacles of iron built into the hard surface, placed so a man's hands and feet could be held fast.

The walls weren't easy to look at either, they were covered in hooks and nails holding up wicked tools made for parting flesh from bone and other tortures. There was no sign of the Rat Cleaver, but there was another door, one that led into a larder if the stench of meat was anything to go by.

Glaring, Fritz swallowed down bitter bile and eased his achingly tight grip on Mortal Edge. He made his way around the table and listened at the door. He expected to hear rapid breaths and mumbling from behind the wood, but instead there was only some soft snoring.

After all his exertions, the Rat Cleaver, despite the danger, had finally fallen to Lethargy.

There was no time to waste. Fritz picked the sturdy lock with ease, then pulled the handle slowly. He pushed the door, but it was barred or blocked by something heavy. The rat cleaver snorted and shifted in his sleep. Fritz pushed harder, but the door wouldn't budge.

He cursed and looked to either side, contemplating how many casts of Stone Pit it would require to get through the walls. Too many, was his guess. He stood from his skulking crouch, stretching his back and legs, then began to pace.

He needed more Strength, or, he looked at his gloved hand, a fire could smoke the man out. There was plenty of wood and no one would miss anything or anyone within this lair. The only real danger would be the blaze spreading to the neighbouring buildings. But in Rain City that was not a particularly likely peril; any fire would be drowned as surely as a rat in a water barrel.

Even, perhaps, an Eldritch Flame.

Fritz shook his head. That was a last resort. He first searched for any lanterns or oil. There were none. The horrible butcher seemed more than content to live and do his evil work in the dark, he likely revelled in it.

With that avenue unavailable, he considered the prisoners again. That Bull was strong, perhaps he could break through.

But was he trustworthy enough to let free? Fritz wondered.

There was only one way to find out. He crept to the iron-banded door and knocked. There were hisses of fright and two bodies shuffled away from the sound.

"Be not afraid," Fritz intoned, his voice barely muffled by the deep red sirensilk scarf around his face.

"Who's there!?" Bull asked, trying to sound brave through his shaking tone.

"You've heard of me. We've met before, Bull," Fritz replied.

"Uhhh," Bull said. "Are you Jim? I know I owe you some triads, but I don't have any right now. I'll get them if you let me out."

Fritz blinked, then remembered the man was a fool. "I'm the Scarlet Shade."

"Oh....Ohhh," Bull said, then as surprise fled, fear gripped him. "Why are you here? Are you here to kill me? I'm sorry I tried to burn down your house."

"Shut up, idiot, why would you say that?" the woman scolded.

"What do you mean?" He replied, stupidly.

"Don't remind him of whatever ill deeds you did," the woman whined.

"But I did try to burn down his house," Bull said. "And I am sorry."

The woman sighed. Fritz nearly joined her.

"I'm not here to harm either of you, not if you agree to help me with the Rat Cleaver," Fritz offered.

There was silence at his words.

"He's asleep, weakened by an Ability, but he's barricaded himself in the larder," Fritz explained. "If you can break down the door, Bull, then I'll forget your part in the attempted arson of the Refuge."

More quiet.

"What should I do?" Bull asked the woman.

"I dunno," she whispered. "But I don't want to die here. You should help the Shade. He's not an enemy I'd want. And there's no other choice if we want to be free of 'him'."

"Hmm," Bull hummed. "Alright, I'll help!"

"You need to swear an oath," Fritz said.

"What? Why?" He replied.

"Just do it, idiot," the woman ordered.

"Alright, I swear!"

Fritz sighed. "You have to make an oath that has rules."

"What?"

"Do you promise not to attack or try to harm me?"

"Uhh, yeah?"

"Then repeat that, swear not to harm the Scarlet Shade or the Refuge," Fritz ordered.

"Uhhh, I swear not to harm the Scarlet Shade or the Refuge," Bull said.

"You too, whoever else is in there," Fritz demanded.

"I swear I won't harm the Scarlet Shade or the Refuge," the woman promised swiftly.

Fritz sheathed Mortal Edge and pulled free his lockpicks. Soon there was a dull clank, then he opened the door.

A pang and a twang, like the breaking of lute string, rang in his centre.

Bull rushed forth, a dull ache crossed over Fritz's chest and he sidestepped the reckless charge. The dumb thug reached out and caught his coat with one hand and pulled him along as he rushed past. Even though he fought, Fritz was dragged by the powerful grip, then they both tumbled. Right onto the rug hiding the trapdoor in the centre of the room.

It gave way, and they fell. Fritz grappled with the man while they were in the air, positioning him so he would take the brunt of their landing. After fifteen feet, Bull's back met the floor with a thud and the sound of many snapping twigs. At first, Fritz thought the fall had broken the idiot's back, but he was only winded and soon began to struggle.

Though Bull was physically stronger, he was no match for Fritz's skill. The Python's Fangs Technique let him slither around the flailing, screaming thug. In merely a moment, Fritz was behind the man and his arm was around his thick neck, choking the breath from the complete cretin.

As his shouts were cut off, Bull spat and scrabbled. That's when Fritz truly heard the squeaking and squealing, and could feel the tiny bites of the swarm of starving rodents packed in around them. He leapt off the man and began stomping and kicking the rats, cursing the whole time as their thin, bony bodies crunched beneath him.

While he didn't truly fear the swarm or those gnawing teeth, those sickening, chittering, squealing moments were some of the most unpleasant of his entire life.

Bull rolled around, slamming his fist and legs in wild strikes as he did so, splattering himself with rodent blood and worse.

Minutes later, both men eventually stopped their frantic defences. The rats were driven back and were either dead or busy eating their squashed kin.

They panted heavily and were covered in bites and blood.

"You stupid prick," Fritz growled, pulling free his dagger.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Bull whined, staggering back from the unsheathed blade.

"Not nearly sorry enough," Fritz seethed.

"I didn't know. I was just trying to get away. I didn't know. I'm sorry. Don't kill me. Please don't kill me. Please," the idiot begged.

Fritz wanted to stab him, wanted to spill his guts for the rats to feast upon, but held himself back. It wasn't that the man was pitiable. Though he was, he looked like he'd lost some weight and an arm. It was that Fritz still needed him to break down the larder door. Which, now that he saw the thin, ragged man, might not be possible in his wretched state.

Weighing his choices, Fritz glared at the third-wit.

Squeaking and chittering still filled the shaft, and although he was furious with the fool, Fritz sighed and sheathed his dagger, then began to look for a way out. Luckily, the stonework was coarse, dry and uneven, an easy climb for anyone as practiced as himself. Fritz soon clambered up the wall and out of the hole.

Below him he heard scrabbling and scraping against the stone, then a yelp and a thud.

"Hey!" Bull cried. "Help! I can't climb up! Don't leave me down here!"

Fritz cursed, then glanced around for the second captive. All the signs pointed to the assumption that they had fled while he fought with Bull.

So much for their oaths.

He cursed again, though he suspected she wasn't likely to go running to any of the gangs for help. Not after escaping the Rat Cleaver.

Fritz turned to the shaft in the centre of the room and peered down at Bull. He was trying to climb up a second time, he slipped, sliding right back to the bottom. He pounded his fist against the wall.

Fritz grimaced, he knew he could leave the man down there, but a pang of sympathy struck him. It was one thing to beat a man or kill them while defending himself or his own. It was another thing entirely to leave them in a stinking hole filled with starving, cannibal rats.

You'd have to do something truly evil to deserve such a fate, and Bull, though he was a brutish idiot, wasn't entirely evil, no more than any thug in the gutters were.

With a sigh, Fritz found a rope in the scattered detritus, he tied it off on an iron ring set into the wall and lowered it to the man. Bull blubbered out thanks, sorrys and blessings as he slowly climbed free of the foul pit.

When he was out, he rolled onto his back, panting heavily. Fritz just watched.

Once he had his breath under his control, Bull asked, "What now?"

"Now, we kill the Rat Cleaver."

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