Mad Lads

For his entire life, or at least as far back as anyone could remember, others had called him Lad. No other name would fit the wiry, excited, young man whose typical pursuits involved serving his noble patrons, The Thrushes, in their illicit endeavors. Today, however, Lad was involved n a different sort of pursuit as Alash and Bodin, two of The Thrushes’ bruisers chased him down the dirty alleyways of the Shunted District.

“Where’re you goin’ Laddy-boy?” heaved either Alash or Bodin – Lad had always had trouble telling the two, lumbering creatures apart and current events did not afford him the opportunity for verifying.

As big as they were, Lad was not surprised that they had been keeping pace with him as he turned another corner, depositing a stack of crates between him and his nearing pursuers. After all, they’d grown up in The District and had been chasing the less-fortunate down these paths for years. Looking around, Lad saw no obvious road to freedom – maybe he could salvage the situation and reason with them? Bodin was thick as a turtle’s shell but Alash could be reasonably counted on to –

“Fuck, my knee! By Luntor’s Cape, you’re dead Lad!”

The crash snapped Lad from his thoughts as he turned to see Alash (or possibly Bodin) with a thick gash on his leg courtesy of the broken crate the two had attempted to barrel through.

With words no longer on the table, Lad only one skill remaining in his arsenal to escape his soon-to-be tormentors: Luck. Picking a direction at random, Lad sprinted, dodging chambermaids and transients as they conducted their business in the alley.

The young man, starting to feel the dry ache in the pit of his lungs, could hear the labored breathing of Alash/Bodin gaining on him with the pained grunts of Bodin/Alash not too far behind. Putting a hand on his belt, Lad fumbled to feel the familiar, gnarled pommel of his knife. While not typically one for fighting, Lad was confident he could at least go down with a fair scrap so no one could say he died running. Seeing a turn in the alley up ahead where he might be able to surprise one of the thugs, Lad uttered a quick prayer to Shule, champion of the unfavored, and drew his blade.

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