Zillow ran, his tiny legs pumping beneath his ragged cloak, through the crumbling skeletons of houses that made up the slum-village-city of Greathollow. Roofs caved inward like starving mouths, walls leaned like drunkards, and the air reeked of wood rot, old sweat, and hopeless ambition.
"Bastards!" he spat. "Do they think they'll get away with this?! Me?! Zillow?! I own property!"
He finally skidded to a stop before a building that actually had a door. Two stories tall, windows intact, roof only partially collapsed. In Greathollow, it might as well have been a palace.
He didn't knock.
The door slammed open, and the stench hit him like a war hammer — booze, sweat, smoke, and something floral and suspiciously magical. Inside, a dozen thugs lounged around: one was sharpening a blade with a whetstone and zero technique, another was passed out in his stew, and the rest were in varying stages of intoxication or debauchery. A bard sat in the corner, strumming a lute made of stolen wood and regret.
The man in the high-backed chair at the center was mid-entertainment, a half-dressed woman on his lap. Upon spotting Zillow, he groaned, pushed her off like she was a spilled drink, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
"Father!" he called out, arms wide. "What a damn surprise. Come to see your favorite son's little empire?"
Zillow's eye twitched. "You're my only son, Gunter."
"Still your favorite," Gunter grinned, kicking a bottle off the step to make room. "Take a seat, yeah?"
Gunter, the leader of the local bandits called Greathaul.
They did everything, from killing monsters to robbing humans, nothing was out of bounds for these guys.
Zillow strode forward instead, smirk sharp as a cursed dagger. "I'm not here to drink with you degenerates. I have... pests."
The room quieted.
Gunter raised an eyebrow.
"Pests?"