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The town today gave new and poignant meaning to the term 'dreck', but if anything could be said about it, it did seem to relish doing so. Hands deep in his pockets and gripping as much fabric as he could for warmth, the increasingly soggy rat hunchbacked his way past fogged windows and warehouses that sent mocking amber diamonds of warmth bouncing along the slick cobbled street. Much of the seafront was deserted, save for the poor souls working the pontoons and loading cargo onto sail-less ships, and rounding a corner made blind by a treacherously looming stone awning he was greeted with the reason why. There, swinging with all the jollity of a cemetery gate, screeched a sign reading "The Haddock and Tackle" with an explanatory picture that showcased the publican's wit. "Charming."

He worked his way toward it, the cacophonic howl of the coast giving way with each step to the uproarious din vibrating through the harsh autumnal air. He had avoided this place yesterday upon his arrival, though admittedly at mid-afternoon the floorboards were emptier than his pockets and for the first night he had stashed a flask of one of the nastier homeland whiskies in his pocket for settling down in his new digs. One headache, one letter and one long tedious blur later and here he was, as always. The push latch on he door was at first completely unresponsive but with a series of aggravated expletives and an infuriatingly anti-climactic *chnk* the door swung open into the torrent of conversation and honeyed spill of smoked lamplight, dripping like an oil painting that fuzzed and leaked its way in precession over the surroundings. Such was the effect that it took several seconds for Dragunov to realise that most everybody had frozen vaudevillian to this unexpected entry, only to resume seconds after Dragunov's shocked gawping to the amorphous commotion that inhabits a good pub.

He sidestepped toward a relatively un-crowded window frame and filled his pipe before sparking and puffing graciously on it. This was purely for show of course, the purple trails if anything providing a fresher inhalation than the wall of second-hand smoke billowing this way and that under raucous conversation. One's personal smoke was always the sweetest, and once his heart had relaxed he felt rising in him the confidence needed to manoeuvre his way to the gnarled oak bar dominating the back of the room. As he skipped, danced and apologised his way through the throngs of worrying types and eagerly gossiping locals he was surprised by the general upkeep of the establishment; most all tables were intact and in places shown to be older than a month or so, and the customary draught window usually kicked into use to avoid mass asphyxiation was replaced at regular intervals by mechanical vents atop the high beamed ceiling. "Lovely place you've got here," Dragunov said with a smile, leaning his elbow on the beer sodden oak and trying to look conversational to the barkeeper, someone who made clear from the get-go he could eyeball a telescope and have it back off a few paces. Dragunov's smile remained plaster-cast fresh however and he pressed on, pointing toward the ceiling; "The vents, very good idea that," he paused to allow the barkeep to drag his eyes upward before sagging back into his glass washing regimen with a muffled "mph," of agreement. So much for information gathering, but all the same he asked for a pint of whatever was being tapped and took a sip, wincing at the acidic froth he had been handed.

"Listen," he said finally, fixing the barkeep with what he hoped was a 'no nonsense' stare, "I've come here off a freight to see Mr. Castoone, I was told he was local?' The barman failed to freeze in shock as Dragunov hoped; with a slow nod he looked disinterestedly at him and mumbled "yeah. ee's about..." before resuming his work. Dragunov's confusion must have been apparent, because a weighty rodent that he couldn't quite place species of slapped him on the back and guffawed with more mirth than Dragunov hitherto considered physically possible; "Don't mind him lad," the man chuckled, "He's never one for talkin'. That Castoone fella you're lookin' for eh? Well, Quite some business you must have with that one," he emphasised the latter of his statement with brisk nodding and another sip of his pint. "Still though, who're you then lad?" he said, swivelling toward Dragunov and surveying the rat cock-eyed and comfortably sunk into his stool, somehow. He centred on the right eye and his smile cracked fuller, nodding to it. "Murosian eh? Don't tend to see one of your lot without a few more behind," He grinned and the rat reciprocated, nodding. "You from one of the islands then brother?" Dragunov asked, to which the rodent shook his head. "Nah, not me, but I know yer type further down the coast," he pointed to what Dragunov assumed was south. "Don't tend to see someone dressed dapper like you in this shit-hole though I must say, especially a Rat; what's yer business with Castoone anyway?" It was hardly a question Dragunov could answer, now that he was faced with it head on, which for the first time since his embarking on this trip rattled his stomach like a can half-full of ravioli. The rodent seemed to pick up on this and with a narrowing of the eyes turned to nurse his pint in an impartial manner as Dragunov struggled to make sense of the situation. What was he doing here? Stuck in some dingy excuse for a dive under the instruction of a man he was only 'potentially' employed with, half a world away from anything like home. He downed the rest of the ale and signalled for another, which was duly slid his way. He supposed at some time he would have to give home a thought, but he was nothing brave enough to wake that elephant just yet.

He pressed forward once more; "I'm here to interview him actually," to which the rodent tilted his head up from his reverie and awaited elaboration, distinctly not smiling. This presented a problem; "Well," he stammered as nonchalantly as he could, desperately gripping for threads in his mind's tapestry, "I understand he's a very influential man about these parts, and a generous soul at that,". This was of course fabrication but it was the best his verbal acrobatics could go on; "I'm working for a company up the coast in Broadquay," he swayed his thumb due northeast, "local paper mostly, but we like to run stories about the more influential around the country. Gives us a chance to get out, spend some time travelling." The rodent's eyes became warm with alcohol and understanding and he nodded gently, pint again in hand after another order. "Well you'll have no trouble with that lad, I'm sure he's open to a bit of boasting for the presses; no doubt he'll enjoy the company too, the man's rather lonely out there on his own... I'd imagine at least," Dragunov raised his eyebrows and leaned forward almost imperceptibly. "Where's that then?" Eliciting a snort from the rodent, "They didn't tell you much did they? Big house up the street; well I say up the street, what you do is follow along till the cobblestones die off and you'll come to some iron fencing a while later, little taller than you I'd say; that's his estate right there, can't miss it really."

The two passed idle banter for a few minutes more while they both emptied their glasses, until eventually the rat felt it was time to set off. Thanking the rodent for his company and performing a series of gestures indicating to the barkeep the money was meant for both their drinks, he sparked his pipe once more and began to battle his way out. The rain had become quite painful to bare now, and he decided to jog as quickly as his nerve would allow to his room; black leaves skittered along the path and burst from sewer gratings in wreaths, at times threatening to end his career altogether. Unfortunately it took several more hammerings of his door than usual in the wet, and as he barged past the threshold and wedged it shut behind him a distinct wall of damp shot up his nose like a blowfly. He wouldn't have to stay long though, thankfully; in fact he had only braved the weather to pick up a forgotten item of his. He crossed to his bed and reached under the pillow for his little insurance policy, or so he had affectionately named it, and turned the pistol over in his hands to inspect it. The weapon was dual-barrelled, over and under, cheap but effective. Unnecessarily high calibre for an emergency weapon, though weighty as it was and with a reinforced steel butt he reasoned he was carrying a steel cudgel with a bit of a kick. Thankfully the rat had never been forced to use it, at least not the soft end, but protection is protection and moreover he had owned it for such a time now the thought of parting was horrific. He loaded both barrels and checked the hammers, though most of it unnecessary considering the condition he kept it in. Moving to the door he wedged a couple of corks joined by twine he had whittled one rainy afternoon into the ends of the barrels and cradled it in the makeshift holster of rips in his coat lining. Now, fortunately, sightseeing was over.

His grimace as he stepped once more into the torrent was a cruel understatement to the power of expression, but locking the door and padding down the stairway he considered at least he was already soaked. The coat was adding pounds to his frame as it neared full saturation, and he took special care to hold the gunpowder packet tight in his palm just in case. The streets were as desolate as his last outing, and retracing his steps he soon found his way to, then briskly past the pub. No doubt he could do with a warm fireside, but he had more important matters to attend to. He mused that this town probably looked rather domestic and inviting in the height of summer; the fact that it was supposedly the height of the season already was something he didn't wish to dwell on. Beyond that the architecture was pleasantly crumbled and archaic, the venerable church he was passing that leered over several newer shops adjacent and opposite it a prime example of what moss and durable masonry can do for reverence. The imposing oaken doors were cracked open and the far window was clear, offering a view of the bay that created the peninsula of these docklands and his place of residence. A faint smile flicked across his dripping cheeks; they'd have never stood for something this overbearing back in Murosia, but considering the biggest difference was that most of this building wasn't buried in sand dunes he could see the logic. A couple passed him on the street, huddled under a blanket sized wedge of sacking and jointly apologising to any inanimate object they assumed was sentient they brushed or tripped on along their way.

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The rat stalked his way on for half a mile, flitting from awning to door frame and generally having a terrible time of it; he appeared to be sinking into rather low grade housing and decrepit shops, not to mention the mud, with the odd industrial building cropping up here and there despite the proximity to the main thoroughfare. In fact as he journeyed onward down the main road he noted despite what must be a constant usage that the cobblestones were getting more sparse and painfully uneven underfoot. He could see why these folk to the west used braces for their soles if this was their attitude to paving. In fact, why not? He listed to one side of the street and began browsing the windows until he found a building that looked under a much higher level of gravity than others surrounding it. Written in a heartfelt attempt at gothic on the top brace of the door was: "Kryuk: Wares". Dragunov pushed his way indoors, opening into a dimly lit and cluttered room brimming from surface to rickety surface with various useful, fire-damaged and generally well-described objects. Strange textured spices filled the room, coloured sparks in torrid whirlwinds crackling from the wood fire, and fortified at the back behind the most durable looking piece of wood in the room stood a wiry Magpie that bowed his head like a tolling bell to the rat's presence. "Welcome, friend." he breathed as he levelled himself to eye Dragunov, intertwining a steep accent with a coffin-lid baritone. "Ah, and fellow prey; Kryuk is pleased to be of service, brethren." Dragunov bowed in similar fashion and stepped toward the counter dutifully; "Well met brother; please excuse the puddles I'm leaving on your floor," he said and smiled bashfully, prompting a mirthful squawk from the bird. "Please, remove your outer clothing if you wish; there are pegs for just such occasions," Dragunov did so, primarily out of pity for the rotting beams underfoot; even the honeyed fire seemed somehow clammy in it's sunken stone trough. Still, The coat began to steam almost immediately once hung up, and the shop keeper looked genuinely pleased as such. Geniality could be found nearly anywhere between members of the Prey; an aptly named alliance of old that still found a rodent many friends in the avian community simply by virtue of their presence. Such traditions this Kryuk seemed only too happy to indulge in; Dragunov gained the distinct impression that the Red-Sea treaty signed some 20 years ago had been equated to an off-colour joke within these walls.

"I am sensing that the rodent-friend is not used to weather of this variety, yes? May Kryuk ask where you hail?" the bird leaned back against a wizened chimney stack that was evidently occupied by him most days. "Used to the weather now, just not used to doing anything about it;" Dragunov smiled meekly, spreading his arms to prove his point, "And I'm from Murosia actually, Isle of Tor in particular," This had a pronounced effect on the bird, who sprang from his position and almost fell to the counter, crossing his arms mid air to form an incredibly enthralled position upon his landing. "You border with the Tarnigan nation yes? We are but a stone throw from each other brethren! I know too well the difference you must feel in this land of greenery and mud." He stood once more, "But please, Kryuk notices you are bare and mudded from ankle down; I may have a size that will suit you, and some towels beside." He vanished behind a haggard doorway before Dragunov could agree, and sounds of scraping wood and foreign expletives could soon be heard. Dragunov squatted by the fire and warmed his hands, watching the steam begin to rise languidly from his knees and shirt sleeves. "These are operable," Kryuk said with a pronounced flick of the head as he entered once more.# Kryuk placed a pair of fur-lined leather braces on the counter between them along with a length of rag.

"Dry your paws and we may see if adjustments must be made," Dragunov thanked him and sat on a warm fireside footstool, towelling his skin dry. "If I may ask brother-" "Kryuk, please, rodent-friend" said the bird, bowing his head respectfully. "Ah yes, Kryuk; uh... I'm Dragunov," he replied, smiling and extending a hand that was met by a jagged set of talons, eager to shake and attempting not to injure. "But yes, anyway, how or why does a Tarnigan set up shop in Moorgate?" It was rather unusual to see birds in such an area, unless they were employed as spotters or messengers for incoming ships; Tarnigan shops are common, but tend to enjoy less dug-in locations to sell their wares. "You will notice, Dragunov, that I am not by any means in the high district," he said and squawked, eyes flashing in fire apple unison as embers danced and flecked across their surface. "I cater for the community here, away from those...things..." he arced a feathered arm in dismissive fashion inland and leaned in closer, prompting Dragunov to act similarly as he could from his footstool. "I need not tell you the nature of those types brethren; I wish only they had the nerve to enter my business to give them Kryuk's thoughts! But they dare not walk these streets, for good reason."

Dragunov nodded in polite agreement and finished strapping the braces to his paws; the buckles would have to be loosened on the arch, but the sole was solid and he was undeniably warmer now for some fur. Kryuk eyed them and nodded at his choice. "Very nice, friend-Dragunov. Kryuk is pleased; you are liking, yes?" Dragunov agreed, extending a hand again in thanks. "How much do I owe you, Kyruk?" The bird shook his head earnestly. "No charge this time, my friend" Kryuk nodded, "I hope these will assist you in your business, Dragunov. Where does the wind take you today?" Dragunov stood and tested the braces, which were looking like one of the best decisions he had ever been given already; smiling gratefully, he informed Kyruk of his destination and line of work. This did not have a positive result. "You associate with Castoone? I would strongly advise, brethren, that you are more prepared than my braces can offer." He was staring directly at Dragunov now, head in near full profile and leering expressionlessly. Against someone else's better judgement, Dragunov looked about him and pulled his coat open from the peg revealing the pistol. Kryuk shook his head. "You rats are skilled as marksmen yes, but Castoone will not allow you the luxury of opening your coat if he is to sense danger." The tone of the shop was becoming very grave; even the fire seemed to be losing some of its 'lustre', wet popping and crackling dying down to eavesdrop. "If writer you are, and Castoone senses you are not deceiving him, then you may find this man amicable. If you go carrying weight other than your work, you may not be so lucky, brethren." He nodded to the pistol nestled in the sopping coat.

With an inquisitive eye still plastered to Dragunov, Kryuk stepped around from behind the counter to reveal his full form in the orange glow; several feathers on his left side had been severely burned and mangled, that much was obvious from first glance; numerous holes and jagged spikes of matted feather and cartilage pointed to something more malicious than mere accident though. He extended his arm, feathers stretching and revealing the fullest extent of his injuries; "But then," he said in a syrup-laden tone, pensively flicking his eyes about long dead wounds, "I never did enjoy foxes." Breaking from his reverie, he nodded and took Dragunov's hand, shaking it profusely. Such was the sudden darkening of the world the rat barely had time to insist he pay for the braces before Kryuk was genially ushering him toward the door, eager to see his products in action. The coat was now incredibly humid as well as waterlogged, but the magpie's hospitality had been so genuine and overwhelming Dragunov forced it on with candour. They exchanged pleasantries once more, the offer of pay and subsequent refusal appearing more than once, and the rat was once again stepping into the river of Moorgate. "Dragunov!" He heard as the door began to swing close behind him; "Do not be a stranger, yes?" He nodded and began to reply but was cut off as the wood slammed upon him. He did however wave from the window, Kryuk plastered to it and giving a fervent thumbs up as he passed. Smiling to himself and content for the first instance that day, it was only minutes later as he trudged on toward Castoone's did a horrifying fact occur to him, drenched and freezing in the desolate street. Kryuk also sold umbrellas.

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