It was the early evening in the city of Hemloche. A dense wave of mist had swallowed the lower district, it’s wispy tendrils snaking their way throughout the murky corridors. A thin, brown haired, middle-aged woman departed the West Street clinic. Her name was Evelyn Harper, a local cut wife of the slums. Before she reached the bottom of the steps which led to the small avenue below, Evelyn turned around and eyed the building from which she exited. How many times has she gazed upon the worn stone exterior of this bleak structure, so naked and exposed, it’s pathetic form dissolving behind a veil of fog? Turning, she strode down the claustrophobic street, the houses and shops piled together in disarray upon either side of her. Various alleys and passageways dotted the narrow cobblestone road, each one choked with garbage, human filth, and the occasional beggar. Evelyn quickly marched along a short causeway, peering over the edge to stare into the dark abyss below. The winding streets and walkways bathed in the weak glow of oil lanterns, or whatever light source the plague-children could find. After a few minutes, Evelyn came into the city square: a dim, foreboding area, marked by the dried fountain within its center.

Continuing her way forward, Evelyn came across a lamplighter, an older looking gentleman in the twilight of his years. His tattered and patched coat reeked of lamp oil. The sour smell seemed to clog her nose, but out of respect she merely smiled and nodded at him. Noticing the gesture the man tipped his hat, pulling back his dry cracked lips into a grin to reveal rotten yellow teeth.

“G’day ma’am,” he spoke in a withered voice like smoke leaving a chimney.

“And good day to you, sir,” Evelyn replied quickening her pace, striding past various worn down homes and the occasional alchemist emporium, all boarded up and forgotten.

Dead vines encased what was once a cupid, his elegantly carved features now chipped and weathered, casting a tired look upon his gentle face. The bow he held was pointed upwards toward the higher reaches of Hemloche, where the privileged and the divine laughed and ate honey glazed roast beast fresh off the spit. A slight commotion brought Evelyn out of her trance. She heard voices, and squinted into the mist, barely making out 3 figures across the plaza. Two men were arguing with a woman draped in dirty rags, her face half wrapped in a mud soaked scarf. Evelyn moved closer for a better look, acting as if she wasn’t paying any attention at all. Upon closer inspection, she noticed that these were no men, but Gloomers: watchmen from the higher city, trained to be guards and peacekeepers, a collective bulwark for the weak. However, most abuse their competence, becoming thugs and ruffians. One was tall and muscular,dressed in padded leather garb with a chainmail hood and carried a wooden club studded with metal. The other wore simple, loose blue clothing, capped in an old decayed sallet, dented and scarred from past violence.

“I didn’t do anything!” the woman was shouting now, clasping a bundle of herbs and tonics to her breast.

The Gloomer wearing the chainmail gripped his club. “Even more reason to believe you did.” his voice was deep and threatening, reminding Evelyn of a crashing wave.

“We thinks you steals this,” the other Gloomer asserted, prodding the woman's wrapped goods with a beefy finger.

“I didn’t steal anything, now please, leave me alone.” The woman backed away from the man, her voice cracking with distress. The Gloomer wearing the sallet took another step forward.

“We’s saw yous take these here goods from the market, now didn’t we,” said the Gloomer in chainmail. The other Gloomer grunted in agreement, crossing his arms and snorting like a wild boar. A crowd began to take form around the disturbance, some confused, others curious of the beginning turmoil.

“I was never at the market. I got these from my sister. She lives right over there,” the woman pointed passed the decrepit fountain, towards a small hut built upon the side of the old brothel, its fracturing plastered walls caving in slightly.

The Gloomer glanced at it with a dull expression. “An’ how am I’s to knows you’s didn’t steal it from ‘er,” he thrusted his thumb in the direction of the hut, turning to face the girl.

“Perhaps she put up a fight tryin’ to take em. That would explain the scarf,” the hooded one sneered, raising his club to gesture at the shawl covering the left half of her face.

“No! that’s just—”

The Gloomer wearing the sallet cut her off snarling, “It’s just what? Tryin’ the cover the wounds from a fight, eh?” The Gloomer lunged at her, snatching the cloth covering the woman's face, tearing it away to reveal the festering sores which lay hidden beneath.“By the gods! This wretch is a damned bloodspitter!”

Both the Gloomers stepped back in disgust, their hands raised to their mouths. An afflicted animal must have bitten the unfortunate girl , rendering her into what is known as plague-child—men and women who are denounced from society, destined to be mistreated outcasts, forced into the alleys and sewers of the slums, or worse: thrown into the desolate lands beyond the city gates.

A burly man of short stature shouted from the growing crowd, “Go back to the Underbelly you foul creature!” He hurled a stone which grazed the woman by the cheek, causing a black and frothy stream of blood to spill forth and blend with the quagmire of muck and soot of the gutter where she cowered.

More people began to shout and curse at the poor girl, hurling garbage or whatever lay at their grimy feet. The Gloomer wearing the rusted sallet strode forward, his free hand outstretched to grab the woman. Yet before he could, the plague-child lunged forward sinking her teeth into the Gloomer’s arm. Evelyn watched intently, observing the Gloomer flail about, trying desperately to pry the girl from his bleeding limb. Quickly, the second Gloomer raised his wooden club above his head roaring.

“Get off him, you vile impurity!” He brought his bludgeon down with a repulsive, *THWACK*.

Evelyn turned away from the barbaric scene taking course before her. The repulsive sound of the Gloomer's club became methodical, every blow adding on to a lamentable sonnet of screams and hopeless begging.

The brutality had come to a shuddering halt almost as soon as it began. The crowd Evelyn stood among was as silent as the wastes beyond the wall. Somewhere beyond the buildings, a murder of crows eagerly cawed into the evening fog. From below came the trotting hooves of a mule, it’s solemn clopping faded and dreary. Evelyn began to weave her way through the mass of gritty slum folk, carefully making her way to the forefront, dreading of the aftermath. The sight made her gag. The body of the plague-child was haplessly sprawled upon the ground, her face no longer recognizable, reduced to a pile of black gore. To its side the Gloomer knelt, cradling his wounded arm, his helmet tossed to the side. The Gloomer’s head was hairless, almost shining in the torchlight. The hooded one slowly meandered up, reaching for something in the back of his trousers.

“Please. Don’t do this,” the bald Gloomer said in a pleading whisper. The other Gloomer pulled forth a boom stick, the trumpeted end dented and tarnished. He cocked the hammer back, leveling it at the wounded man before him, his expression blank, and emotionless. “Please. Don’t do this. Plea-”

A thunderous *CRACK* rippled through the city square, met with a soft thud of the Gloomer’s body hitting the ground. Everyone cringed, covering their ears expecting another shot to be fired. The Gloomer lowered his weapon, its muzzle leaving a thin curl of white smoke twirling about in the air. He then sighed, wiping the spots of blood from his face.

“Leave them, let it be a reminder.” His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, yet more fearsome than the roar of his firearm.

Beginning to walk away from the massacre, two Gravelings draped in muddy, charcoal grey cloaks slinked forward. Their greasy dark hair and round black spectacles gleamed in the young glow of the torch light.

The Gloomer wheeled around, his eyes in a mad frenzy. “LEAVE ‘EM’!”

Both the Gravelings gazed at him with confused expression, the likes of which a young girl would give their mother after she said they couldn’t have a pony.

Annoyed, the Gloomer raised his boom stick towards the sky, releasing another earsplitting *CRACK.*

The Gravelings scrambled back into the diminishing crowd, quickly vanishing into a nearby alleyway.

Lowering his weapon, the Gloomer scanned the remaining men and women, growling in a threatening voice. “Let the dogs have ‘em, the filthy mutts need something to eat.” He haphazardly kicked the boot of his deceased partner as if waking him from an afternoon snooze, strolled up the street shoving his hands into the depths of his trousers, and faded into the evening shadows.

The once large gathering was now only a few poorly dressed men and women, probably waiting to loot the unlucky sods which lay motionless in the manure and filth of the street. Evelyn shook her head in disapproval.

“Why must it be like this” she muttered to herself, but this is how all things are, and shall be, in the city of Hemloche.