"The after effects of the great war can be seen most clearly in the blasted remains of,what once was, the capital of the Sunrise Dominion. Oddly enough, New Sanceister has been left to rot in political limbo as a house for Dominion Beaurecrats and crime syndicates that terrorise those too poor - or too stubborn- to leave.

Although the citizens of New Sanceister once praised its name, their cries call it by something testament to its ability to trap its residents and slowly break them down;

Swallow"

-Excerpt from "The state of New Sanceister" by Darein Erasmus.

Urukh spent a long time outside at that door, number 14. The final apartment in one of the few complexes in the east borough that remained untouched by the bombing raids at what seemed like the end of the world. The darkness outside the window at the end of the hall stretched its hands inwards as the gas lamps in the hall flickered arrhythmically.

He took a swig from his flask, placed it back inside his trench coat and knocked on the door.

"You don't have to come here anymore." A voice called out from behind the door.

"I know. I brought pastries." He said, lifting a wicker basket up to the peephole. His voice was low and gravely, and came with a faint lisp due to the gaps where his tusks should be.

"… Come in.", Said a voice from behind the door.

The door opened and the slim frame of Miriam met Urukh's eyes.

She was a small woman, with auburn hair and bright green eyes that pierced right through you. She wore a faded green dress scattered with floral prints of chrysanthemums, a common dress worn during the twilight years of the Sunrise Dominion.

Miriam took the basket to the kitchen, as Urukh looked around the familiar apartment. It felt so strongly of 'Him', down to the impressions in the sofa and the imprints in the rug. A picture on the mantle overlooked the entire living room; his smiling face never failing to stir feelings of familiarity and a deep river of guilt inside Urukh. Small plastic poppies lined the frame of the photograph, gazing deep into Urukh with their shiny black eye.

Urukh could see himself faintly in the glass - Dark green skin, beady yellow eyes, and a wide nose that seemed to be squashed into his face. Orcish features had never been looked upon fondly, but the photograph looked beyond them. Just as 'He' always had.

"How have you been?" Urukh broke the silence, tearing his gaze from the photo.

"Same as usual. Since Mark left for that blasted war, there's little left for me to do around here without work." Miriam answered, settling into the brown satin sofa with a fresh gin martini in hand. "Besides, with the recent disappearances I have as good an excuse as any to stay inside."

Urukh's ears perked up.

"Disappearances?" Urukh reached into his pocket for a small notepad and pencil.

"Do you ever stop working?" Miriam could only let out an exasurbated chuckle.

"Disappearances are serious, Miriam. What do you know?"

"You'd be better off asking Agatha down at 7. Her granddaughter has been missing for days - since last sunday." Miriam sipped on her martini, leaving a trace of lipstick around the rim as Urukh scribbled in his book.

"Anything else? What's the victims name?"

"You shouldn't get yourself involved. You work yourself half to death as it is, get yourself tangled up in this mess and you are bound to find yourself in trouble."

"The girl was involved with 'trouble'?"

Miriam sighed at her choice of phrasing.

"I've only heard rumours. She was hanging around with good-for-nothings on the street. Bombshells - allegedly."

Urukh paused at the name Bombshells - a small street gang active in the east borough. He had heard from his contacts that this band of thugs decided that shakedowns and racketeering weren't enough, getting involved with some of the large players in the borough.

"Please don't do anything rash.", She continued,"The Justiciars aren't what they used to be, but this is their job. You'll be getting yourself hurt for nothing."

Urukh sighed, and stowed his notepad back into his pocket.

"You know I can't do that. I'll be careful, but I won't stand idle."

"I know. Don't be too harsh with Agatha, she's old enough as it is. She works down by the estuary near St James Cathedral, it'd be best to find her tomorrow morning."

Urukh nodded. "I should leave. Enjoy your pastries."

Miriam said nothing as Urukh left as quickly as he had came. The apartment felt too strongly of him - of Mark - for him to stick around.

Urukh lit up a cigarette as he caught the last line of trams heading back to his hovel in the west borough. Stanford reds, one of his last few vices remaining in what's left of Swallow. Packed with nicotine and carcinogens, too strong for the new regulations to allow for the sale of king sized smokes.

His apartment is small, littered with empty cans of beer and old soggy cardboard that used to hold cheap Sasal-style stir fry from a restaurant nearby. The smell of soggy cardboard was thinly veiled by the cheap gladiolus floral spray lying on his bedside table.

Urukh washed up at the small, stained sink below the shattered mirror that splattered his toothbrush and a pair of old and rusty pliers before settling in to the dingy mattress in an attempt to drift off into blissful sleep.

…

Smoke and ash clogged the air around a soggy trench packed with sandbags, barbed wire, filthy rats and filthier soldiers adorned in soiled beige khaki.

Urukh and another man huddled down, rifle in hand, as artillery rang out in the distance.

"Beautiful night, eh?" Mark said, puffing on a long cigarette. His face was blank, save for that smile that seemed to brighten the world.

The smoke fell deep into the man's chest, and rose from the bloody, gaping hole..

Urukh stifled a gag, as a wave of grief and terror coursed through his bones.

"What's wrong, Urukh?" The man said, as he wound began to rot, and overflow with rats and maggots.

His hands, stained red with livor mortis, fell limp to his sides as smoke poured from his wound.

"What's wrong?"

————————————————————