Gulchwater was best described as a bog-town on stilts, shrouded in an eternal fog and forever in the shadow of Galahan City's mighty towers of arcane knowledge. It was a maze of narrow, railing-less bridges hovering a metre above a huge marsh, held up by weak wooden beams and littered with rotting oak shacks of all shapes and sizes. If it weren't for the strong magical waste of Galahan flowing into the bog, the town would have sunk decades ago. 

Unfortunately for anyone travelling to Galahan for studies in the arcane, they had to go through Gulchwater, or what most dubbed 'Thieves' Gulch,' due to the organised and unorganised criminal activity that ran rampant in its streets. For those seeking rest, however, or to simply forget the journey or smell, The Drowning Merman happily obliged. 

The back door to the noisy tavern flung open, and a man in grubby white overalls waddled out holding a large, heavy pot. He stumbled, but found his footing, then heaved the pot's contents onto the deck where whatever monstrous remains made up the slop within, slid through broken panels and into the marsh below. The luminescent eels that had been waiting patiently beneath the deck went into a frenzy, splashing and thrashing in the murky water until every morsel and bone was devoured. The water soon calmed, and the eels swam away in a school to find their next meal. 

The cook blew out a sigh and set the pot down on the decking. From behind his ear, he pulled a handmade roll of crushed brown leaves and placed it between his lips. With a click of his fingers, a small flame spewed from the tip of the chef's thumb, lighting the rolled-up leaves before shaking the flame away and leaning on the rickety balcony with a sigh. 

A smoke cloud escaped his curled lips as he scanned the foggy bridges that made up Gulchwater with a primal disgust. Even the locals hated their home. But aside from the bog-town itself, something else set a frown on his wrinkled face. A hooded figure stood within the mist down a wide street, handing a small vial of faintly glowing liquid to a malnourished beggar: one of many that lay sprawled out around Thieves' Gulch. The cook made a 'tsk,' and after a deep drag, flicked his ember-ended roll into the bog and hurried inside, leaving the cast-iron pot on the deck. 

He marched through a tight kitchen of dirty dish-towers and elbowed open the door to the bar. His ears filled with a deep choir of laughter and conversation, glasses clinking and plates clattering, coughing and sniffling. Once he'd made it through the thick smog of leaf smoke and drunk patrons, he stopped at a rounded booth that sat three scary looking characters, two men and a woman. 

"Wrath," warned the chef, with the tone of a friend. "Dixie's shitheads are handing out glitter to the unfortunates... Again." 

One of the men, the scariest looking of the three, wore a dark brown hide jacket that housed many pockets, and a belt that gripped a small satchel was tied around his waist. He sat forward. His messy, shoulder-length hair curled down to his shoulders, and Flesh coloured runic scars ran down his cheeks from underneath each observant hazel eye. "Where." 

"Down Slick Street." 

Wrath stood, towering over the chef. "Those fucks never learn." The cook backed off with a nod and allowed the taller man to step out of the booth and his two peers to stand. "You two check the rest of Joy-Quarter. Ruffle up any glitter scatterers and make sure they know who sent you." 

"Such a bossy boss when you wanna' be, aren't you, Wrath?" said the tall and burly Cobble, throwing a hood over his bald, dark-skinned scalp. 

"Yea, boss, cut us some slack," added Stone. "This ain't our first shakedown in Joy-Quarta'." Stone began tying her long black hair into a knot atop her head with one hand, as her other was missing completely. Cobble leant forward and took an iron pipe from a compartment at his feet and hid it in his long, leather coat. With a lousy smile, Wrath patted the chef's shoulder, said his thanks, and left the noisy tavern: Cobble and Stone not long behind him. 

Wrath's underlings turned left along one of the many, rickety narrow paths that made up Gulchwater, and the man himself went right, following the outside of the tavern round until he came across a bridge that stretched over towards Slick Street. On his way, an alluring aroma caught his senses. Stood under a pole-hanging lantern at the beginning of the bridge was a young woman dressed in torn, revealing clothing. Fishnet tights hid little of her legs, and her bored, tired eyes had thick bags hanging from underneath them. 

"Dixie's lot are handing out glitter again," she warned him, stopping the mobster in his tracks. 

"Bod told me already. Best you get inside, girl. I won't be letting them off with a warning this time." 

"You be careful, too, Mister Wrath, ya' hear. Strange folks be strolling Slick Street tonight. And I ain't on about the scatterers, eiv'er." 

"These are my streets, Cilla. Only strange folk that walk 'em wear my colours... Thanks for the warning." 

Wrath broke away from her and marched over the bridge to an eerily empty and foggy Slick Street, aside from the unfortunates, of course. The 'shithead' Ichabod mentioned was gone. His mark, however, had been left. A beggar was on his belly, crawling his way along the edge of one of the many shacks that lined the rickety wooden pathway. The veins on his hand were faintly sparkling underneath his skin, and soft, euphoric moans crept out with his breaths. 

Wrath knelt beside them and took their whole dome in his palm and turned the weak unfortunate's face to inspect it. "Look what this shit does to you," Wrath muttered, more so to himself since the unfortunate no longer shared the same plane of consciousness. He gently placed their head back on the ground and stood, before making his way further down Slick Street. 

He was growing more concerned with Cilla's warning the more he wandered. It was late, but it was never this quiet in Joy-Quarter after dark. Concerned was the wrong word, really. Wrath had no reason to be concerned on his own streets. The only 'threats' to his hold on them came in the form of upstart orphans who thought everything was owed to them in lieu of their misfortunes. Them, and Dixie and their 'shitheads'. It was ever so coincidently after that thought that he heard what he'd expected to hear minutes ago: the sound of several steels leaving their sheathes. 

"Wow..." teased Wrath into the surrounding fog. "Dixie really wants me out of Joy-Quarter this time. Because I can be damned-well certain it wasn't one of you stupid cuckolds who thought they could gut me." 

Three dark hooded assailants wafted out from the mist to the mobster's front and back and even a side alleyway. Technically he was cornered, but, in truth, Wrath was more worried about Stone and Cobble, and he wasn't one bit convinced that any of these jesters could lay a finger on him. They all charged at once, a chorus of light, leather boots tapping on wood. With a swift step to his side, Wrath grabbed one knife-wielding arm and inverted the elbow attached to it, forcing a yelp from its owner. Wrath's own elbow found cartilage in another, knocking them to the deck, and the third was grabbed by his thrusting hand and sent flying into the bog with his own momentum. He'd have been the lucky one, if Gulchwater wasn't also Gallahan's sewer; the guaranteed infection wouldn't kill him, but at least the 'stupid cuckold' would be impotent. 

Wrath left his toys to lick their wounds and hurried to search for Cobble and Stone. It didn't take long. Several narrow bridges away, Wrath heard Stone's scream. It was more of a battle-cry, followed by the words: "I'LL RIP OUT YOUR BLADDER AND POUR YOUR OWN PISS DOWN YOUR THROAT," or something along those lines. 

When Wrath walked out onto Mercy Walkway, Stone had an assassin by the scruff of his neck with her hand. She suddenly turned to Wrath and rose a stubbed arm in his direction, a small crossbow attached to it. 

"Damn it, Wrath! I almost put a bolt through you!" 

The mobster smirked. "Did you?" 

During the brief interruption, Stone's captive jolted, but before their escape attempt could become fruitful, Stone had her forearm halfway into the assassin's windpipe against a shack wall. "You're not leaving without a dagger in you!" she threatened, her words like searing hot irons. 

Wrath could see the poor man struggling for his life, and Stone had a bloodthirsty glare in her eyes. She was genuinely about to kill him, and Wrath wasn't about to let her. "Let him go, Stone. We're mobsters. Not monsters." 

Stone didn't listen. Her prey's escape attempt had stoked a dark fire in her. "You saw what they're doing to the unfortunates! These punks don't deserve the air they breathe, even Gulchwater's!" Stone's anger grew steadily harsher through a clenched set of yellowed, chipped teeth, her eyes never straying from the struggling assassin. 

Getting slightly worried for his friend's sanity, Wrath warned her again and took a step forward. "Stone." 

A few seconds passed, and just as her prey's struggles began to weaken, she released him. He fell to the floor on his hands and knees, coughing and crying - too weak to flee. 

"Thank you," said Wrath. "Dixie's the one to blame for this. Not the sods they send our way. We'll get them one day; we just need to be patient. Where's Cobble?" 

Another assassin immediately came tumbling out of the fog and sliding along the wooden street towards Wrath and Stone. From the same direction, Cobble strutted his way toward them with another hooded vagrant being dragged behind him by their cloak, a metal pipe in his other hand resting on his shoulder. With a heave, Cobble threw the vagrant at the other two and spat at their feet. 

With a nod, Wrath turned back to check on Stone. Her anger had calmed, but the kill-hungry glare was still deeply etched into her eyes. 

"Come on, you two. We've had enough excitement for one night. Back to the Merman."