Dehlos, the merchant city of Keribas. The sheer amount of people here made Radasandth look like a backwater village. Goods from all over both continents filled the stalls and moved along the streets in wagons re-purposed as mobile store fronts. Of course, the pungent aroma of horse manure remained a constant, but the fragrance and incense vendors were in no short supply either. Together, it made for a rather intoxicating aroma and not for the better.

As I descended the docking ramp, a familiar face rushed up to me from the crowd. A seemingly young fellow by the name Richktor. Blond hair, blue eyes, and covered in filthy rags, the imp looked every bit the juvenile beggar he portrayed. To think he remained immortal in such an innocent visage must be both a curse and a boon.

"Mistah, mistah!" Richktor called out. He grabbed me by the hand. "This way! This way! Mum would like to see you!"

Begrudgingly, I fell along with the ruse. We stumbled through the busy streets checking shoulders with those lacking the courtesy to move from our way. I felt my irritation pique when I caught a wry smile on the imp's face as he tugged me toward destination unknown. The little shit was getting a kick out of this.

"'Ere we are!" he called out as we both arrived in the elusive, unoccupied back alley between two pubs. Richktor turned around with a triumphant grin to which I replied in kind. Before he could so much as squeak in pain, I plunged the sharpened point of my ulna through his eye and out the back of his head. His little body seized and twitched until I ripped my bone from his skull. To his knees, then face down into the dusty cobbles he fell and only far off ruckus filled the air with white noise.

"Was it worth it?" I asked the corpse. My forearm cracked and surged until the last of bloodied ivory disappeared beneath the skin.

"I could... uhngh... ask you the same," replied the boy with a groan. Slowly, he lifted himself up. The eye and part of his brain were still visible through the clumps of red mud stuck to his face. Like watching molasses, his flesh slowly mended over the gory wounds.

"Very much so," I replied. "Now, why bring me here? I'm supposed to meet with the others."

"Now I know why Arythra calls you the Mad Dog." Almost as if to further his point, I caught myself snarling at the comment. He tried to laugh, but ended up cupping his hand over the grotesque hole in his head.

"After the recent orc attacks, the privatized mercenary police has been on high alert. We needed to change the meeting location last minute. No one knows where it is, but I was instructed to wait here for further instructions once you arrived." As he spoke, I couldn't help but notice something inscribed on the walls. Well, not carved or marked perse, but something wasn't normal. The second sight after my skirmish with Elthas in the Anti-Firmament picked up on it.

"What are you doing?" Richktor asked in his condescending, high noble tones. If he couldn't see it, then it was certainly meant just for me.

"Your boss is more clever than I give her credit for," I commented. By whatever means she used, the message was clearly out of place, and thus, my second sight could pick up on it. Instead of directions or a map, it was coordinates. We used them in Salvar quite frequently with the ravens. From an origin point, we're given direction and paces. This message, 35 degrees east of north 1550 paces -- outside of the city a fair distance.

When I turned to the immortal behind me, his raised brow and folded arms urged me to divulge more information. The wounds had completely sealed with only coagulated blood still stuck to his cheek.

"Wipe that shit off your face," I commanded. "This time, you follow me."