The street came up to greet Morgan readily. For his part, the man flew fairly well, being that he was still mostly asleep and had been dragged, rather forcefully, out of bed and into the cool air of the morning. He struggled awake in the hands, but it was the toss that really drove home the sense that sleep was no longer welcome. 

The trash of the great city of Anun-Fedlrid, was collected on a somewhat regular basis by a group of workers for the town, known as the Waste Master, and through their efforts kept the town reguarly clean and safe from trash and other debris that may litter the otherwise pleasant streets. Being as the city was large, it was rare that these actions were done daily, and so it was eventually established that the process would be done once a week, on each Wiila, the third day of every week. 

It was unfortunate then, that Morgan was tossed from the second story balcony over the street, and would have landed atop the clean cobble to some amusement of the passersby, and some damage to himself. Instead, seeing as it was Miila, the first day of the week, there was a nice helping of trash from the Boarding home that had built up, and he landed, rather fortunately, atop an old mattress that was well meaning but a bit long in the tooth. 

"Oi," Came a shrill female voice "I said to aim for the road." 

"I did," Said another. A man, with far more muscle in his tone than in his head. 

The pair of Bart and Beatrice Barker stepped from the open doorway that lead into Morgans room and out into the cool, and slightly rank, air of Anun-Felrid in the morning. The waste buckets were oft being emptied around this time, and so it made for a strange sense of smell each time one opened the door. A pleasant smelling flower with the neighbor of a corpse, as it were. 

"Morgan, did that wake you?" Beatrice called down. 

"Ugh," Was all that Morgan could muster. He was still asleep and mostly trying to come to terms with the fact that he'd actually been having a wonderful dream, just that it involved flying. He was, now however, some distance from his bed and was concerned as to how he'd gotten there. 

"I don't know that it did." She said. "Bart, would you be a dear and-" But he was already gone and down the stairs. 

Bart grabbed the man with a sense of ease that would have made the more muscle-interested individual swoon, instead Morgan was ripped from his half concious mind and into the sudden urge to fight and defend himself. He reached for a blade that wasn't there, and then the past twelve years caught up with him and he remembered that he'd sold it some time back. Morgans arms fell to his side. 

"Morning Bart, Beatrice." He said "What can I, er, do for you?" 

"You could pay your bloody rent!" Beatrice said "Thats three weeks you owe us now." 

"Weeks?" Morgan asked, confused. "I thought I went on a month by month." 

"That was before you started being late for those too," She offered. 

"But I don't have any-"

"Then you're out!" Beatrice snapped her fingers and a brief movement of something caught his eye. It was the wind, she was casting something, but so far it was only effecting the wind around him. Perhaps it was for effect?" 

"Right," He said "You mentioned that a second ago." 

Bart shook him once for good measure, and Morgan was reminded that he wasn't actually standing. He pinched his brow and sighed. 

"How much do I owe you?" 

"Forty coppers," She said. "Just to make us even. It'll be fifteen a week going forward." 

"Fifteen?" He breathed "Thats madness. Those rooms are barely worth ten!" 

"Then you best find somewhere else to live," She turned and the wind died down. "Bart, would you be a dear and send him on his way?" 

Bart, ever a pleasant and dutiful husband to the shorter woman, reared back his arm, and with a powerful throw, tossed Morgan some distance down the street. He once more collapsed into a pile of yet-to-be-cleared junk and trash. 

It was, if he was honest, not the worst morning he'd ever had. There had been others, but they were few. He stood, dusted himself off, and with a single shaken fist to the dissapearing sight of the pair, began his walk through the streets towards the docks. There were always options for him down there. 

There weren't any options for him down at the docks. 

Morgan cursed under his breathe and looked around. The docks were filled with a plethora of individuals that looked as ragged and run down as himself. In fact, there seemed to be more than usual of the bastards, all vying for the same trade and options. Guides to the city, looking for new people to show around before robbing them. 

Morgan was, in not so many words, a thief. He wasn't an exceptionally good thief either, not from lack of trying though. In fact, if he were to have applied himself in any of the previous attempts, he likely would have been far better off, but that just wasn't the way he wanted things. He was a thief that hated being a theif. He felt like his proffession had been noble once, perhaps even in his mind, but that had changed many years ago, and it was usually impossible to change the past. 

"Morgan," A one-eyed man siddled up next to him and made his presence known. "How are you this morning?" 

"Well," 

"I heard the old pair finally kicked you out." 

"How'd you hear about that?" He asked

"Well..." The man let the word die in his throat before saying, "s'no problem though, you can come stay with us. We've always got room down below the bridges." 

The local homeless of the great city Anun-Felrid, were not the same that one would find in a regular city. Each one was, to a man, a trained thief in their own speciality, and had come to the city to ply their trade. It was only when they eventually arrived that they discovered how similar their unique dream was to others of the field, and they would often find themselves in fights over clients. Sometimes in front of the prospective clients themselves, usually leading to the loss for both. It was a brutal business. 

Morgan had never been good at the whole "stealing without reason" thing, the part of the proffession that made up the profession. He was, however, decent with a blade and could pick a lock. He could move quietly when he wanted, and was fluent in some of the languages of the Empire. It was just enough that he could ply the trade in the markets and with groups, just well enough to get by. Of course, when he was drunk and being honest with himself, he never wanted more than that. It wasn't about the stealing, it was about just surviving. 

"Thanks, but if it's all the same, I think I'll just try and earn the room back." He said. 

"s'fine by me, no skin off me eye." 

"Teeth," Morgan offered. 

"What?" The man said 

"Its teeth, skin off my teeth. Or nose." 

"Why would your teeth have skin?" He asked, "And don't you need your nose?" 

Morgan sighed. "What did you want?" 

"Oh! Right," He perked up and nodded "The boys are putting together a bit of a job here. Its gunna take a little bit of time, but they need a lockpick. Are you interested?" 

"Whats the job?" 

"Can't say," He said "Only that it'll be big." 

"And when was this?" 

"Can't say that either," He said. "only that it'll be soon." 

"So theres a job, you can't say what, and you can't say when, but they want me?" 

"Yes," The man had a sheepish grin on his face.

"Tell Daift, the answer is no." 

"How do you know it was him?" His small, one eyed face gave a wide expression of surprise. "surely there are others in the group that-"

"But none so secretive." Morgan said. "Daift is just... Hes... Well hes..." He couldn't seem to finish the sentence. He tried again "He's just a bit, much, i'd say." 

"I won't tell him you said so," The short man, whose name was Fila and had worked for Daift as his closest ally for some years, stepped up a little closer and added, "But if you change your mind, we can help you pay off the whole thing." 

"I apprecaite the offer," He said "But I've got plenty of prospects here. Don't you agree?" 

The area around them was filled with every kind of tourist trapper that could be known to mankind. They stood with signs, with tables, some even worked together as guide groups, trying to take as much of the business as possible from the newcomers. 

It must be said, that the city of Anun-Felrid, rests at the end of a long river, and as such is the only one connect, by some distance, to the ocean and other lands. Travel across land is safe, only when going with a caravan, but it is otherwise unwise to travel in any fashion that doesnt include the water. Morgan was aware of this, and while there were always options available to those that took to the caravan unloading zones, the docks were usually the far superior option for finding potential marks. 

Morgan scratched his head and tried to figure out what he was going to do. With so many others around at the moment, it would be nearly impossible for him to actually get enough clients in the day to pay off the debt and get the room back, which meant that the whole day was roughly a non-starter. He couldn't do anything, so he wouldn't right? Morgan shook his head, no that wasn't going to do. He'd have to come up with something. 

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted an older woman with a massive wooden trunk on wheels. They were small and gave off a distinct sound as they clicked on the cobbles, but to woman made no motion to stop and ignored the sounds. 

An idea occured to him, and he quickly bid his one-eyed companion farewell and darted off after the woman. He could act as her guide, if she was so keen as to be traveling alone, perhaps he had the better chance of introducing himself in the streets to her, somewhere that she wouldn't have expected a guide to be. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was the only one that he had at the moment, and as such wasn't about to let it go.

The old woman was relatively easy to track, aided by the constant click-clicking of the wheels colliding over cobblestones. She made her way from the far docks, the closest to the entrance of the river, farther towards the Wilting Gate. Her overall demeanor seemed to be that of someone with very little patience over the whole ordeal around her. 

She wasn't as old as he'd expected when he approached her, she was easily within her fifties, but from the gate and movements, it had seemed she would have been in her eighties, and thus he was thrown for a loop when a rather stern voice called out to him when a praticularly ruddy cobble had stuck out and caught one of the wheels.

"What?" He said, somewhat stupified to be called into action by his very prey. She spoke Nirukan, a language a bit more rough around the edges than their own. 

"I said," She began again "Are you going to help me or what?" 

Without thinking, he rushed to her side and made the motions, with the adequate strength, to lift the chest and place it over the cobble and back onto the somewhat solid ground. She gave a nod of satisfaction at the work and then made to depart without another word. 

"Hold on," He said "Aren't you forgetting something?" 

"What's that now?" She asked, turning around. 

He wasn't normally someone to stand in the way of others, but in the city there was a rythm to things. You didn't do something without a reason, and there was no reason less likely to appear than 'just out of the kidness of my soul'. In fact, this appeared so little, that it had become something of an inside joke among the thieves and merchants of the streets of Anun-Felrid. One would have their hand out, waiting expectantly for the copper piece, while jokingly saying it was from the kindness of their heart. 

This woman, clearly not from around here, was simply expecting him to have helped out of the kindness of his heart, but in the genuine way. It was surprising to say the least, but he pushed past and did his best to ignore it. There wasn't anything he could do about it, other than to hold out his hand and hope that she understood. 

She didn't. Instead, she placed her hand in his and shook it several times before saying, "Thank you for your help young man, I don't know what I would have done without you." 

"I... No, you..." 

"Hello there Morgan," Said a man. 

Morgan turned to see Jerome, Philip, Lance, and a few others whos names he didn't care to remember or make up. Jerome was a taller fellow with slicked back black hair and beady eyes, he reminded Morgan of a cockroach, all smaller head and larger body. The proportions were accurate too. The others sneered through their masks or dark rimmed glasses and watched the pair with the acute study of a scholar waiting for a breakthrough. 

"Hello, Jerome," He spoke back in Gehenian, same as the man had done himself. Likely the old woman was completely unaware of the conversation at hand. In fact, she wasn't aware in anyform and was eagerly trying to get back onto the path, and would have done so, but she found herself interested in the strange conversation before her as it unfolded. Of course, she couldn't understand, but she wasn't an idiot, and these new men seemed to be criminals. 

"What are you doing Morgan," He said with a sigh "Don't you know this is our turf." 

"Yours?" Morgan laughed, then bit his tongue for doing so. 

"Whats so funny about that?" 

"Its just..." He searched for the words. "How do I put this? Isn't this still Ol'Fishers area?" 

"Fishers being driven out of business." Lance, a short man with the eyes of feret, said. 

"Does he know that?" Morgan asked 

"He will soon enough," Said Jerome. "Now, I'll ask again. What are you doing?" 

"I was helping an old woman?" He wasn't sure if the answer was a question or not, but it certainly came out that way. "Isn't that what it looks like?" 

"It does." He replied. 

Silence. 

"So, I'm free to go then?" 

"You don't help people, Morgan, you never have." 

"I can change, I don't always want to be a theif." He said, a touch more honesty coming out in the words. 

"Right," Jerome said "and I'm a wizard." 

"Thats remarkable," Morgan said

"What?" 

"That you're a wizard." He said, trying to act sincere. 

"Get out of here Morgan," The cockroach of a man said "Or I'll have the rest handle you." 

"Yeah," Said another figure, one of the men that Morgan cared too little about. 

"Please," Morgan said, "Theres no need to fight about this. I was simply helping the old woman with her luggage, is that so wrong." 

"You were gunna rob her," 

"And you aren't?" 

"We are," 

"So whats the problem with me having helped her? She's all yours now, I'll walk away." Morgan took a step back, but Jerome raised a hand. 

"No," 

"No?" He asked. 

"No." 

"Then," Morgan started "Why not?" 

Jerome thought about this carefully, before saying "Its the principle of the thing." 

"So..." Morgan took another step back, trying to get his bearings. Things were becoming far more violent than he was expecting them to be, and the old woman hadn't left yet. That was strange, He'd expected her to have moved on by now. 

"Uhm, ma'am." He said in Nirukian.

"You're defending me," She said shortly, "Aren't you?" 

"No, I..." 

She shook her head and opened the luggage before her. She reached in and took out a short knife in a sheathe. It was simple, without decoration, but it certainly was a blade. Morgan looked it over, then her, then back to the knife. 

"What is-" 

"Take this." She said, shoving it into his hands. Then she produced a small pouch of jangling metal and slipped it into his other palm. He made to protest, but before he could really make any sounds, she had turned and was walking away. 

Morgan stood stunned. The others seemed similarly fitted in place. In his hands, Morgan held a very simple knife in a sheathe, and a small pouch of what felt like coins. He wasn't sure how much he'd just been given, but he was certain that food and beer were in his future. If he had a future. He turned around and faced the half dozen angry men before him. 

"Well..." He said, "What are the odds?" 

"Get him." 

Two men from the bundle stepped out and cracked their knuckles. Morgan set the pouch into the back pocket of his trousers and took a position with the knife, sheathed as it was. He wasn't about to draw blood on a group of unarmed individuals such as they were. It made no difference to him if he had to fight, but he didn't need the corpses on his concious. 

"Come now Morgan, just hand over the money and the weapon, and maybe we'll let you walk away." 

Something in him, some cowardice most likely, desperately wanted to listen to those words. It urged his mind to hand over the coins, drop the knife, and walk away. He didn't need this. He wasn't really apart of this, this wasn't anything that he needed to do. He could just go back to the docks and find a customer or two that he could lead down a different alley, rob them, and go drink. 

A larger, and more sane part, reminded him that things were bad in the city, and if you didn't care for yourself, you'd likely end up dead. It also said that these bastards were just bullies with little else to do, that the woman had screwed him over without even so much as a few words, and that he had been thrown from his room this morning, and something about that last one really upset him. 

Instead of retreating or handing over the coins, he took the knife and readied to fight. For what its worth, it wasn't a long fight. For all his bluster and talk of uselessness, Morgan was a soldier at one point, though it has yet to be revealed, and shall be told soon, that it was a life he rather took to. 

When the last body fell before Jerome, who had gotten himself hit a few times in the process of stepped backwards to avoid the limbs that sprawled from their flung owners, he was feeling far more secure in the knowledge that: today was just a really bad day. 

Morgan dropped the body of Lance, who he'd been holding with a menace by the collar, letting the frame fall limply to the ground. The knife remained in its sheathe, unremoved during the fray, though the weapon had come into play on more than a few occasions during it. 

"So," Morgan said, looking Jerome down with a eager glance. Something in him wanted the man to move, to take action and try to fight. Instead the cockroach of a mortal merely stepped back, gave a meager whimper of annoyance, and walked away. 

Morgan, having been the action piece for the past few minutes, found that all the moving and shaking and fighting had left him rather parched and with a wicked hunger. So he, stepping over the bodies on the floor, made his way for the Crooked Nail, the only tavern in the area with enough decent beer and food to make a man forget his troubles.