The southern Arc-en-Lume watchtower. One of the capital’s many holding cells laid here, beneath the floors upon floors of barracks. Here, under the dim, crackling torchlights and the incessant rattle of chains and shackles, the city’s many thieves, thugs, and other miscreants remained. Some awaited trial. Others hoped for bail or pardon. All, however, longed for freedom. Freedom from the rusted, blood-scented chains. From the stale, dusty air. From the possibility of a worse fate within the Siren’s Epitaph, Beaucourt’s most fortified prison, secluded deep within the western mountain range.

The sound of footsteps drew Iz’Hana’s ears. The bright yellow glow of a lantern peered down the spiral staircase just across his cell. His keen huntsman’s senses recognised these sounds. The familiar, metallic clink and clank of the guards’ steel sabatons, followed by the pitter-patter of footsteps, one with shorter, slower strides than the other.

The faceless armet of one guard looked straight at Iz’Hana. “Hey, Darkie. We’ve got a friend for ya.” The other guard cackled and dragged the bound form of a drow woman down the stairs, across the cobblestone floor, and in front of Iz’Hana’s cell. The first guard unlocked the door, and the second tossed the woman inside.

Thud!

Her lanky body rolled over the dust thrice over. The guards shut the door, and began to move along with their second prisoner - a stout dwarf, dressed in tattered rags, with beard and eyes as black as ink. “Guards, wait!” He shouted. The guards humoured him. The dwarf shuffled towards the drow woman, his arms bound behind his back and secured by the second guard. ”Don’t celebrate just yet,” he spoke, his voice a calm, low warning. ”The Sacred Flame are lookin’ through my room in the Jackalope this very moment. It’s only a matter of time.”

She spat through the bars, spraying it through her teeth and over his face like a snake spitting venom. “Inbau aturr ulu l’maerch, gorra’h,” she hissed, unable to hold back the laugh in her voice.

Hilgur bared his wide, block-like teeth, his face contorted with layers of wrinkles set by rage. ”NOBODY CAN STOP MY EXPEDITION!” “Alright, that’s enough,” The first guard decided, and dragged a screaming, squirming, incensed Hilgur away, deeper into the dungeons.

A flash of white darted across her dark face. As she turned around, she disposed of her grin, flicking her gaze over to the shadow in the corner. They were hers, with ashen skin and pale eyes more fitting of their kind. A short rolling of her tongue left her lips instinctively, ending on an inflection. A question. Then she frowned, remembering something, and tossed her head without waiting for an answer, slinking towards the other corner.

Zoltian drow. They weren’t hers.

Clink.

A sharp, metallic sound pricked Vic's ears. It came from her left, in the shadows of an alleyway. The silhouette of a man, faintly illuminated by a flickering flame. His thumb tugged the cap of a lighter open, then closed.

Clink.

The man stepped out of the dark, dressed in a midnight-coloured, single-breasted suit. He glared at her, with golden-ringed hazels as bright as his fire. Lines were etched into his angular, frowning features. A crown of dark curls adorned his head, cut close yet stylish.

Clink.

"You lost, boy?" He asked, his voice a raspy, guarded hiss.

Vic watched the stranger approach with a wary side-eye. She kept her missing hand hidden in her pocket, and shuffled out a cigarette packet with the other.

“No, I’m lollygagging,” she stated, and flicked a cigarette out of the pack with her thumb before holding it out to him.

The stranger's brows shot up. That voice. A woman, he realised. He eyed her carefully, then scoffed.

"You look like shit," He remarked. "What are you… homeless? Junkie?" He snapped the lighter shut. "Smoking will kill you."

Vic gave him a flat stare before tucking her cigarettes back into her pocket. “So you just carry that lighter around for the intimidation factor.”

"Use it for my cooking," He replied, matching her deadpan. The stranger held the lighter high, and its chrome surface caught the sunlight. "Reliable. Unlike those kitchen lighters."

Clink.

The stranger flicked the lighter alight once more. Vic narrowed her eyes, and immediately all the oxygen around the little flame was snuffed out and the light along with it. He did a double take, and flicked the lighter on and off a couple more times, to no avail. His lips curled with disapproval and Vic snorted.

“Yeah, looks it,” she laughed, hand instinctively going up to hide her grin despite the mask.

The stranger shot her a dirty look. For a second, Vic swore she saw the golden rings on his eyes flash. He pocketed his lighter. "Club's closed. Go home, come back in ten hours."

The amusement in Vic’s eyes dropped and she raised a brow, pushed herself up off the wall and slunk towards him. “So you work here,” she remarked. "Mmh. That's how I got the suit," he replied. “Cute. Look, I’m not here to party at this dive. Where’s Lab Rat?”

The stranger's entire body language shifted. Lower, more guarded. The glow in his eyes returned, prominent against the dark shadows of the alley. "Who the fuck are you?" He asked, as much a question as it was a threat. Vic’s eyes flicked to the side in exasperation.

“You said it, junkie. Just here to get my fix - why the fuck does it matter?” her tune changed mid-lie, “The freak’ll probably end up killing me for kicks anyway. Where do I find Lab Rat?”

The stranger considered her words. He looked at her from top to bottom, skepticism coloured his eyes… but he relented. With a sigh, he turned around and beckoned her to follow. "Lab Rat is a freak," He stopped and glared over his shoulder. "And you're a fool for dealing with him."

The stranger marched on anyways, towards Shapeless. "What's your name?" He put his hands inside his pockets. "Need to know what to write in your obituary."

Whomph. The sound of baggy clothes hitting the ground turned his head. Stepping out of the mound on the ground was a concerningly thin and beaten up body in a pair of skinny jeans and a crop top, with a loose yellow and black mesh singlet. She threw the beanie down in the pile. Her hair was cut short, still an eye-burning red, but now just ticking her earlobes in a messy bowl cut.

“Vicki Vortex,” she answered as she tugged down her mask. The stranger's eyes widened at this revelation. His jaw dropped, and he stared, unblinking and slack-jawed, for far too long. Vic’s brow twitched. “What? I know, I’ve got all the sex appeal of Ellen Page. But -” She followed his eyes, to the wispy stump her left hand was supposed to be. “... Right. Don’t worry about that. I’m working on it.”

The stranger slowly turned away, visibly growing less comfortable by every second. "...You look like a crackhead."

“Fuck you.”