Patrick.

  The morning air was brisk and just as pleasantly rancid as it ever was in a proper Taeldrian morning!

  The sickly sweet aromas of her condensed, somewhat unwashed populous, mixed with the street filth and animal shit, mingling ever-so-delicately with the hearty scents of cooking food and fermented grain, souring in forgotten cups.

  Each wafting from various houses or taverns, dumpsters, and potent armpits, the aroma creating a sort of intoxicating richness that felt… mmhm… oh so calming as he took it all in.

  Were they asked, most would sadly cim that they hated the smell, feigning revulsion and disgust by equal measure, all the while joking merrily along with one of the most common and overused bits of idle conversation that gave speaking of the weather a solid run for its coppers!

  Certainly, any newcomer that arrived in the supposed empire's capital could be overheard commenting upon the smell when they got within a few earnest kilometers, but, to Patrick, the putrid stink only ever reminded him of home.

  Not to mention that there wasn't a wager he wouldn't make against the average citizen's vile lies on the matter.

  Like him, he knew they loved the reek, and not a single honest Taeldrian could ever cim otherwise if put beneath a charm!

  It was part of the whole package in his eyes, just another accode to be worn by the city that had raised him. And though he'd never confess it himself, some things, after all, were private affairs not meant for sharing; there were times when he was abroad and dreamt of the gnarly and thick airborne goodness that the city just wouldn't be the same without.

  The clean air of a forest or mountain was great and all, but the city's loving brand of freshness was what truly curled the hair on a d's chest; after all, the capital was not for the faint of heart.

  It was a cesspool of thieves, crooks, bandits, cutthroats, and ravenously efficient scavengers—and that was merely the nicest way he could describe the officials that ran her!

  Down in the streets, a patrolman was like not to take a bribe from a rapist, an innkeeper liable to steal your most precious possessions while you were away, and a priest to kidnap a beggar d that made the mistake of wandering near a church without anyone else around.

  Yes, Taeldra was a fine city indeed, a decaying bck heart of a once indomitable dominion, left to rot and fester by its own children who had abandoned her after the desotion.

  It was a pce where a man like himself could make a decently honest bit of silver with nothing more than a mask of illusion, his wits, a few choice feats, abundant confidence, and a winning smile.

  All of which he had in generous supply.

  However, above all else, Patrick considered himself an earnest sort in his endeavors, a regur blue-colr kind of guy, and, as such, earned his living as most did in the city.

  Through hard work, dedication to his craft, and a keen eye for the opportunity...

  Today, he had donned the guise of a fair-skinned man with roguish good looks, shining teeth, and a curly mop of light-brown hair. He always liked to throw just a dash of himself into his disguise, though he was careful to keep any major notable features separate from his own.

  His master had once called it 'maintaining a pusible deniability.'

  Illusions that altered one's face too much beyond reality were either prohibitively expensive or unstable and, in some cases, both; however, with an expert eye and steady hand, Patrick had learned it actually took very little to keep himself looking anonymous and fresh—fresh metaphorically speaking of course.

  He still had to sell the persona after all, and reeking like daisies didn't exactly exude the dashing retired adventurer look that he was going for.

  It was generally easy to pick out the would-be delvers from the crowd while he sat. Usually, whilst enjoying a nutritious breakfast of fried eggs, baked ham, and a nice tea, cinnamon or gray preferably and typically imported from the east, Patrick did have a bit of a taste for the finer things in life.

  Of course, there was no rush to finish his meal, and he was particurly fond of his morning rituals. The young, spry pups of the imperium finest, spped down by the current administration as they were, each typically resplendent in finery bought by their yet wealthy parents, made for easy marks.

  Oftentimes, they simply weren't well-versed in how things actually worked in the lower districts and typically made the mistake of arriving far too early for their first dungeon-reted endeavor.

  The adventurers guild representative that their parents would have undoubtedly hired to chaperone their oblivious offspring, a development of fairly recent interest, almost never arrived before the stiputed time in the contract and, more often than not, wouldn't wait around if their charges were not present.

  The guild got paid whether they completed the job or not; it fell upon the client to ensure that they maintained their appointments. Not the other way around.

  Naturally, this created a rather unique opportunity for those smart enough to see it for what it was and had the capabilities and sensible minds for the good coin to cim the advantage.

  Spriggs tits, the only reason he surmised that more people like him didn't sweep in was that only rank amateurs bothered looking for scores in the poor neighborhoods! And rightly so, as any thief worth his salt would be spending his days skulking about the more—vish locales where the kids came from.

  "Well," he mused cheerily while bobbing a boot, amateurs and Patrick.

  It took individuals who had attained a silver promotion or above in the guild to work as a guide for first-timers, given the current—climate of unease in the city.

  And while most gold-ranked veterans wouldn't be caught dead bothering with something so—exasperating as babysitting a party of young uptight rugrats through their first tamed dungeon delve, it wasn't entirely uncommon, especially if the pay was right.

  Though most goldies were older sorts, retired kingdom champions or hardened war dogs much as himself, usually at the end of their career, there always seemed to be enough bored, cash-starved, or good-natured for the wealthier popuce to hire overqualified escorts for their spawn.

  The practice had, as of recent months, returned with a sort of fring resurgence given all the missing people that were vanishing from the dungeon's depths, never to be seen again.

  Though the quantity was a comparative drop in the proverbial bucket given the numbers involved, fear had a tendency to stir up the dust and debris, no matter how unlikely it was to statistically die down there.

  But, if the rich wanted a golden nursemaid at triple the cost of simply hiring a silver d or ss who was just as capable, who was Patrick to judge them?

  As for himself, he was what those in the business called a goldie.

  He'd been around long enough to know how things worked in the city and the greater world beyond. Had even managed a rather nice ft of his own up in the nicer part of town with his payouts.

  He never actually accepted the contracts on behalf of the guild; that would invite too much attention far too quickly; instead, he relied on alleviating his blissfully unaware charges of their wealth from head to toe at the tip of his bde and the end of their own folly!

  And what wealth they had…

  The spoilt runts of his crooked interest were typically cd in the finest gear that mommy and daddy's coins could buy, their packs stuffed to the brim with excess glittering sundries and trinkets that jingled oh so merrily as they walked by.

  Expensive poultices wrapped in exquisite silks, elixirs, and various artifacts that were outrageously expensive to the common folk and all rather lucrative to sell if one knew the right pces to do so.

  There was no shortage of shops that weren't willing to restock their shelves with a few ill-gotten goods if it meant getting them for a fraction of what they'd sell them for, and Patrick had learned that he could make a decent living at it all with the right concoction of humble humility, a skill for barter and fingers with a touch light as a feather.

  Even now, as he gently sipped from his tea, washing down the remainder of what he felt like eating (it was never prudent to gorge oneself upon everything on one's pte, after all), a crowd of young hopefuls from the academy and beyond had already begun amassing outside the cavernous archway. The very same that led to the depths of the dungeon.

  A full complement of guards, scribes, and guildmen were always stationed around its rocky entrance, though their presence was more to keep the peace and ensure that the good emperor, and by extension, themselves, got their proper due from the aspiring little heroes in the making.

  Most of them stood zily against walls or at commandeered wooden tables with their mates while supposedly on duty, perhaps sharing in a game of sevens or euker.

  Nobody ever made trouble around these parts, at least, not if they knew what was good for them, and it wasn't like the dungeon was an actual menace, chained and colred as it was.

  Thus, there was never a fear that anything would emerge from its abyss, unlike how wild dungeons tended to spit out their excess monsters and cause unspeakable mayhem.

  For the most part, Patrick had a healthy working retionship with the crown boys, a few coins here, a promissory note for Madame Bealuxy's fine establishment there, and for the most part, they let him do as he pleased, so long as he never harmed anybody too badly.

  It was one thing to kill a powerless gutter rat or steal from the rich, but it was entirely something else when a reputable family's children were killed in cold blood.

  Yeah, he had been known to rough the kiddos up from time to time when he had to, and he wasn't exactly what one might call virtuous to the ways of making people disappear, but typically, the dungeon did that anyway, leashed or not.

  Who were the guards to say that it was he who bonked the little rascals on their heads and not the club of an eagre goblin? Certainly not they, they were guards, not damned inquisitors.

  Obviously, to avoid any—sore feelings, Patrick was careful not to hang around cherry-picking for too long before taking a break, but with four other locations in the city such as this, he could pretty much hunt whatever he wanted so long as he wasn't too greedy.

  It was an art form to find the precarious bance of what one could and couldn't get away. One that stood as his only true w. Yet, he'd felt as though he were becoming quite an accomplished adept in the wiles of his chosen craft.

  Today was the third day he'd been haunting the promenade of Lord Weasley Stiptees Boulevard, affectionately shortened to Stiptee Street by the locals.

  There, he had sat, waited, and sipped his way through a mountain of beverages, some alcoholic, lying in wait for that special someone to wander into his p.

  And, as it happened, his patience appeared to finally be rewarded.

  Arriving by a horse-drawn carriage of impeccable craftsmanship and by no means the transport of a pauper prince, four young hopefuls descended to the cobbled road with bright-eyed enthusiasm and equally healthy doses of conceited narcissism for those around them.

  Their leader, a strong-jawed and handsomely beautiful blue-eyed specimen of unquestionable pedigree and confidence, strode from the carriage behind him without so much as a tip for the poor driver who likely worked for his family or, rather, his father.

  Tall, broad-shouldered, and with flowing long golden locks that would make ss's of all ages weak at the knees and wet in their knickers stood as though he were the damned emperor himself!

  A proper snack of a heartbreaker and natural charmer if he'd ever seen one.

  Patrick even admitted that the boy was sure looking every bit the dashing knight to boot, sealed within his masterful pte suit, its gleaming perfection decorated by depictions of golden lions and ornate shields.

  The d practically shone as the heroic example of exempry courage that he no doubt believed himself to one day become! Or possibly to already be.

  One would have been right to assume the young man to be of obvious nobility in some form or another.

  Full pte armor was—expensive, no matter where one looked, with even the te empire soldiers before the desotion scarcely equipped with such protection as kids these days seemed to be.

  Perhaps, once, back at the height of the old republic, after she's forced all her neighbors and rivals to the dirt so they might suckle the heel of her gleaming jackboots… The imperium's finest might have looked half as dashing, but of course, that was a different time…

  One long before his own, before all the politics that had devoured her whole, and the desotion that had hammered in the nail…

  But, ignoring the brilliant and over-glorified shell's artistic and engraved detail, it was a still formidable suit without question. At his waist, the aristocrat held a hand upon the pommel of a longsword, its eborate sheath every bit the equal to the rest of his attire, though the fool seemed to have forgotten his helmet somewhere…

  Or maybe just didn't want it to obstruct his good looks…

  A fool's mistake if there ever was one, but a common mishap all the same. One that he couldn't fault the boy for as, had he been in the d's shoes, he'd want that thigh-wetting face of his, dampening the loins of every pretty thing from here to Molivier as well!

  Behind him, wearing expensive attire in its own right, though perhaps not quite to the degree of the first ds, were his teammates, who partially consisted of two additional male youths.

  Each of which were likely either not firstborns like their leader or belonged to families of lesser wealth that sought to engrain their children with a house better than their own.

  The first of which was a short and stocky d with a shock of ruddy red hair and a fat face that seemed to have not yet cleared of the childhood blubber, nor its slight red tinge.

  He wore a fine cloth doublet, tailored after the test dualist fashion with long coattails and high boots that stomped along as the boy pretended to be his sire, pushing through the rabble with a crooked grin.

  There was no observable armor on this one, merely his immacute if slightly stuffed, clothes. And, he carried a sheathed rapier in his left hand, a fine weapon for killing, just as many others, though its guard looked far too fanciful for practical use in any real tussle… It was, of course, of undeniable craftsmanship, however.

  The d strode with his chest puffed outward, seeming to be trying to mimic the first boy's air of importance, but his somewhat unfortunate size in every observable direction, some ways too wide, some ways not wide enough, well, needless to say, the effect was merely making him look rather silly for the efforts, especially since his weapon was taller than he.

  To his side was a nky-height youth who wore an unstrung bow at his back and long knives of decent quality at the waist, likely the poorest of the group by Patrick's discerning gaze; he walked with his comrades with an appreciable silent and apprehensive expression to his surroundings.

  He had short brownish bck hair and an unattractive freckled face that Patrick decided shared much in common with a mouse, just as his demeanor appeared to, yet he moved with a sort of easy confidence in his serpentine steps that belied the boy to be a presumably competent combatant.

  At home in his body, despite the failings of his teenage years and genes, he was confident and knowledgeable in his gait. He was a talented one… or otherwise had a knack for something that gave him such an air of poise.

  Patrick would need to keep an eye on him, he decided, smiling to himself as his gaze moved to the st individual of their party.

  Finally, taking up the rear was a third frontline attendee, a poor choice overall but not uncommon for beginners.

  She wore maile armor over simple thick cloth and two bdes at her hips, one a longsword like the first boys and one a short. She was tall, though not quite so as their leader, with more cherry red hair than rusty which was tied into a bun, exposing darker tanned skin.

  There wasn't any real captivating beauty about her like the first d or ugliness like the third, but she had a pleasant enough cuteness that so often accompanied youthful women in the prime of their bloom. And was the only one whose equipment combined both quality and practicality in a way he could approve of on a personal level.

  It was always important to be armed with the best one could feasibly afford as it was only the best that one should be willing to risk their life with. Though she lost considerable points for forgoing a helmet, just like the others… a terrible trend of recent times he knew.

  With the modern glorification of adventuring, so came with it a new age of those who thought they knew best...

  Patrick had learned over the years that even a simple padded cap could and would save your life if you bothered to use the bloody thing. Though not his preference in the old day-to-day, were he ever in a situation that found him on the front lines again, he'd damn well be making sure he had the sturdiest protection avaible, damned what it looked like!

  And, were that the case, then he doubted he would ever take the blightedly hot thing off either...

  The quartet moved through the crowd of less fortunates, all of whom were their peers by would-be profession if not by wealth, pushing and shoving their way past those who weren't quick enough to move themselves in the manner that most nobles often trod upon their lessers.

  It was all Patrick needed to see to determine their—candidacy for his involvement.

  Great mother above, did he love them rich and stupid!

  Tossing a few coppers on the table with an extra to thanks the poor waif of a girl who'd waited on him, Patrick swaggered to his feet, tucking in the chair in his departure as he zily meandered towards the guardpost with a confidant sway.

  Stiptee Street was a busy pce most days, with citizens of the capitol rushing about its boardwalk nearly every hour of the light.

  A locale of handsomely aging architecture, both it and the surrounding neighborhoods were among the first to be constructed when the city was founded.

  Its dipidated buildings and crumbled infrastructure gave it a well-worn and homely atmosphere that very much fit in with those who lived there.

  The people of Stiptee Street were a tough and hardy bunch, the men able to hoist and lift their way through intensive bors with ease, the women capable of sanding a bench with naught but the skin of their palms, each more than willing to drain an entire keg in their own right.

  By day, they worked hard to provide for their family to the best of their abilities and then became merry drunks as nightfall arrived!

  Patrick had always held a special spot free of the darkness in his heart for the pce where he'd grown up and become oh so fond of.

  As a boy, the rogue soon to be entering his thirtieth year had swept through the streets with his cohorts of fellow urchins, picking at the scraps that they could manage to swindle, steal, or beg for.

  All in all, it had been a pretty decent childhood that had seen him into his adult years without major injury or severe malnourishment. There was always good food to be found throughout the trashcans of the countless shops that littered the boulevard, and it had paved the way for his rather successful career as a professional scout and scavenger for the army.

  With alleyways that teemed with four-legged life of all shapes and sizes and never a dull moment to be had amongst the headstrong ds and sses of Stiptee, the street still remained, to this day, one of his favorite pces to sit and have a bite to eat, more often than not getting a free show with his outdoor meal by way of street performers or heavy-handed brawls.

  Usually, he kept out of such confrontations, instead choosing to kick up his boots and let the rexing chaos soothe his weary soul to pleasant rexation.

  But today, Patrick, in a not entirely unforeseen twist of fate, sought to disarm one such situation from getting nastier than it already looked to become.

  It wouldn't do for his precious meal ticket to be turned away after all, and, as a proper citizen of the new imperial order, it was naturally his civic duty to nurture the youths of the next generation and teach them one of many invaluable life skills.

  The first of which they would learn, if willing when he smoothed over the mess they'd managed not four minutes after arriving.

  It never ceased to amaze Patrick that, no matter where he traveled, entitlement and ignorance seemed to be the ceaseless hallmark of the wealthy youth that the world churned out with ever more capacity...