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The Rusty Nail was a quiet bar tucked in a corner of the Burrows. Drunks and shady looking individuals were found meandering around the bar and an unmarked building beside it. Dougal figured it was a gamblers' den of some sort. He'd thought about going there and swindling some people out of their money to boost his investments from Altair, but scarcely had the time to go.

Freya was waiting for him inside. She sat at the counter with an empty stool on her left. There was already a foamy, glistening glass mug of some type of booze set out for him.

"Not all dwarves like alcohol," Dougal said. He clambered onto the stool and needed to hop up to be able to sit on it, as it was sized for someone with much longer legs.

"I know, but you like it." Freya offered him a hand but he refused her aid, slapping her hand away.

Dougal settled in with a sigh. "That's besides the point." He downed half of the mug, finding the ale to have a bitter yet likeable taste. He set the mug down and smacked his lips a few times, savouring the taste as the alcohol warmed him from the inside out.

"Not bad, pretty good choice," Dougal said to her. "At least you didn't get me one of those fruity elven drinks. This is the best human brew I've tried in a long time." He looked at her out of the corner of his eyes and lowered his voice to barely a whisper. "So what was it that you wanted? It's pretty risky for me to be out in public at this point, let alone allow you to be seen with me. Though I doubt you care much about either of those things."

"I merely wanted to talk," Freya said, sipping at her drink. Dougal knew she wasn't the least bit bothered by the prospect of being around a wanted criminal. She knew how to take care of herself in case something happened.

"Do you have the information we need?"

"Of course," Freya said, "I'm hurt you would think otherwise."

"So where's the next fragment?"

Freya kept her head as still as possible as she glanced from one side, then to the next, and whispered, "Councilor Roygan's Estate." She slipped a piece of parchment into Dougal's coat pocket with the deftness of a street magician. "There's something else there, if you're interested."

"If you know about it, then it must be good," Dougal said. Freya had a tendency to pick up tidbits of information about highly valuable artifacts and other treasures that their guild could use to secure a fortune. Much of their stash back Home was filled with such prized possessions.

"There's a rare sword made of simulacron ore," Freya explained. "Supposedly, Roygan had it forged as an ornamental piece. I doubt the weapon has ever left its scabbard."

Dougal nodded, already seeing piles of gold coins in his mind. Simulacron was an exceedingly rare metal that had a strength somewhere between steel and mithril. It wasn't the rarity or quality that made such material coveted, however. It was the magical properties contained within.

"Security around his estate has tightened up though," Freya continued. "The Mithril Blades have been hired on to guard the perimeter and the area inside the manor."

"It won't be a problem," Dougal muttered. He motioned for the barkeep to refill his glass and ordered a plate of food for himself. It would keep the man busy and, most importantly, away for a bit longer while the two of them talked.

"Are you really going to keep going after those fragments? I wouldn't think you'd do it after everything that's happened."

Dougal shrugged and stared into the rippling liquid in the mug as it was set down before him. "I would be lying if I didn't have any reservations. But you've already done so much work trying to locate these artifacts that I can hardly say no. We've come this far, and I don't plan to let such effort go to waste."

"You have such determination," Freya said mockingly, her lips curling into a sneer. "I suppose it's only proper that I tell others that was one of your better qualities when I give your eulogy. At this rate, it's only a matter of time before the Blades tighten the noose."

"A pity I won't hear it, then," Dougal said, "Since you'll be dead about a hundred years before me." He downed half his drink, and felt a warmth spread from his chest out to the rest of his body as the alcohol worked its magic. "I don't intend to die just yet. I have too much left to do, and there's plenty of people counting on me at this point."

Freya nodded, silently thinking before speaking again. "Why did you want to become a thief anyways? Certainly there is more to life than mere riches."

"Aye, there is. That's why I've been doing this for so long," Dougal replied. He considered how much to tell Freya. Jinn had never once questioned why Dougal did what he did, and Albert knew everything already.

The dwarf took a moment to collect his thoughts. He waited for the voice to pipe up, to try and stop him from sharing their tale, but all was silent. Yet Dougal was sure he could still feel the man in the back of his mind, biding his time, waiting for his chance to take control again.

"It's a long story," Dougal finally said. He glanced at her expectantly, meeting her sharp, hawk-like eyes. "Did you have time?"

"I have plenty of money for drinks," said Freya. "So out with it. I've been curious why you got into such shady business in the first place."

Dougal scoffed. "I don't consider it shady. I'm almost hurt you would refer to my service to Laren in such a negative light."

"'Almost', huh?" Freya mused as she took another sip.

"Are you familiar with the plague that struck Olaraa twenty-five years ago? Don't nod your head so much, you wouldn't have been born then!" Dougal said harshly. Freya just smiled at him. "Everything changed around that time..."

* * * * *

"What do you mean, 'it's not enough'?" Dougal roared as he slammed his hands on the counter, glaring hard at the woman on the other side. "Twenty gold coins would have bought a healer's services for a month. How is it not enough now when people need it most?"

The woman dumped the coins she had been counting back into their sack and handed it back to Dougal. "The demand is too great at the moment and our healers are too few. It's fifty gold pieces for a visit. Either accept that or move on."

"But it's not even a cure!" Dougal shouted, drawing the ire of the woman's armor clad body guards. The dwarf shot them a scathing look, daring them to do something, but the woman raised her hand and bit them to stop.

"I don't set the prices of our services," she said evenly, trying to remain as civil as possible. Dougal found her attitude more infuriating than if she had started yelling back at him.

"How is it fair that the people who are dying to this disease are the ones who can't afford the treatment?" Dougal was furious and his nails dug into the wooden counter top as he clenched his hands on the edge. "People are suffering in the ghettos! Do you people even care?"

"It's not my problem, sir!" the woman replied firmly. "If you can't afford the treatment then I suggest you leave. I don't have time to be dealing with riff-raff here." She accentuated her point by indicating the door with a long, bony finger. "We need to make room for people who actually have money."

"Riff-raff? You filthy wretch, I'll -"

"The soldiers here have been getting antsy," she said, cutting him off. "Don't make me tell you again or I won't stop them from doing as they please."

Dougal didn't budge for a moment. His teeth were clenched hard, and he knew his jaw would be sore later. However, it was all that was keeping him from wringing the woman's neck.

"If my father dies, it'll be his blood on your hands." Spinning on his heels, Dougal took off at a hurried place as he gave a rude gesture with his hands over his shoulder. He thought he heard the woman make some kind of retort, but he didn't hear it clearly through the fog of his rage.

She and the rest of her ilk had just sentenced his father to death, after all the scrimping and saving that Dougal had been doing to try and get a meagre twenty gold coins.

These damned Lightweavers act like they're heroes,_Dougal thought as he hurried down the street. _Give some dwarves the power over life and death and they think they have the right to put a price on someone's health. Those bastards!

Dougal stomped up and down the roadways of Olaraa. They were littered with people coughing, vomiting, and dying in the gutters and alleys. A few asked him for money to pay for their treatments, and one even tried to swipe his coin purse from his belt, but Dougal didn't give the grabby dwarf anything except for a swift right hook that sent him back to the ground.

Dougal wasn't worried about being exposed to the infected. He'd already contracted the plague just shortly after it first appeared in the republic. He wasn't sure whether it had been because of his youth or some form of luck, but after weeks of feeling sick and like he was about to die, he'd managed to recover and bounce back. And, much to his astonishment, he'd become immune to it, too.

His's joy had been short lived when he realized that his immunity had come at such a great cost. His father had contracted the plague while caring for him. He had been hopeful at the outset, thinking that if he survived the disease, his father would, too. But as weeks went by and no healer was found, his father's condition deteriorated until there was no longer any hope of him recovering.

Dougal rushed through a checkpoint that had been set up outside the ghetto because of the plague. They were attempting to quarantine the infected, with mixed results. The plague still found its way out of the neighborhood and, eventually, out of the city. The newly formed Lightweavers, a group of healers and paladins that were devoted to the Goddess of Light, assured everyone that their blockade was working.

The dwarf ran past the guards, who did little more than glare at him as he went by. Normally, no one would be allowed out without being inspected first, but after an incident where Dougal had gotten into a fight with several paladins and won, they let him pass unmolested.

The streets were covered in filth and reeked of blood and bodily refuse. The cobble roads were covered in bits of glass and splintered wood and ashes. Homes had been broken into and looted. Giant red X's were painted over doors, marking the homes of the infected. Dougal could only hope that the paint was simply colored red, rather than the alternative.

Fires raged in a distant part of the ghetto, filling his nose with the stench of burnt wood and burning body parts. It was almost nightmarish to see, yet all the sights and sounds had become everyday occurrences for him. He no longer looked at the infected with revulsion. Instead, Dougal could only pity them as they suffered through a fate worse than death. Those who contracted the disease were better off dead as their insides were torn apart.

In the gutter, a woman held a child in her arms. The baby wasn't moving, but she cooed and stroked its head, speaking softly with a voice that was choked by blood, phlegm, and mucous. She promptly turned to the side, fell to her hands, and vomited up a torrent of blood several times before she collapsed into the puddle of her own sick. She moved no longer.

Why don't these Lightweavers care that their countrymen are dying? Dougal fumed as he hurried by, trying to block out the wails and retching and coughing. We're suffering here, and all they care about is money. Even though they preach the sanctity of love and life for all people. Damned, crooked holy men, every last one of them! Had to take mother away, and now this!?

As Dougal came up to his father's home, he noticed that the door was open about a foot, swaying slightly with the light breeze. There was also a fresh X over it, and the paint still dripped as beads of red rolled down towards the ground. Instinctively, Dougal flicked his wrist and a hidden knife slid out of his sleeve and into his hand.

Bursting in through the door, Dougal saw two dwarves turning their front room inside out. Wooden plates, bowls, and metal cutlery were all strewn about as cupboards were flung open one by one. Clay pots were shattered and the pantry was in the process of being cleaned out. He'd seen this same scene play out countless times across the entire ghetto. Chances were good both he and his father would be killed if he gave the thieves a chance to do more than loot their home. Their retribution against the infected was swift.

Dougal didn't give the burglars any time to react. He knew he had the element of surprise, and allowed instinct to guide his body. He crossed the room in two great strides and his blade found a home in the first thief's back. He clutched the knife harder as he felt it slice through the dwarf's skin and muscle. Dougal thrust several more times before shoving the thief aside and turning to deal with the other intruder.

"Marlow!" shouted the other dwarf as he saw his companion fall to Dougal's attack. He spun around, and a pendant forged of copper swung over his chest. The likeness of two hands holding a pile of coins was emblazoned upon it.

"Of course you'd be one of Laren's ilk." Dougal stepped forward, brandishing his knife. "Get out now, and you won't end up like your friend." His voice was shaking as he made his threat, and as the final words left his mouth, he knew that the thief wasn't going to listen.

The thief proved to be much faster than Dougal anticipated as he struck him in the jaw with a left hook. A flash of steel caught his eyes, and Dougal leaned away from the blade of a dagger as it nicked the skin of his neck. His hand flashed up, wiping at the wound to see how much it was bleeding, but the cut had been mostly superficial.

With a wordless scream born of desperation and anger, Dougal side-stepped the next swing and grabbed the thief by the neck, squeezing as hard as he could. He stabbed him several times between the ribs, and watched as blood began to drip from between the thief's lips. Once the other dwarf stopped struggling and dropped his knife at his side, Dougal released him and took a step back to wait until he was sure it was safe to let his guard down.

Panting and feeling light headed as the rush from the scuffle faded from his body, Dougal fell to his knees to catch his breath. He could feel bile rising in his throat, and he bent forward to throw up. He could still feel the sickening sensation of the knife going through the other dwarves' skin, and it made his stomach churn. He'd never killed someone before, and it terrified him that it had been so easy to do. Was it merely experience from so many brawls in his short life? Or was he just lucky? Dougal couldn't be sure, but he didn't want to find out. He threw up once more, then fell back and wiped his lips clean with the back of his arm.

Damn it! I must have forgotten to lock the door when I left. He looked at the two bodies on the floor, skeptical and a bit paranoid that they might only be faking their deaths. He waited them out a few minutes, and checked to make sure there was no pulse or breathing.What do I do with these two? Father is going to be upset when he finds out they're Laren's followers. Do I even tell him anything?

After a few moments, he realized his father wasn't getting out of his bed to see what the ruckus had been all about. All the looting and raiding and burning that had been going on kept the dwarf up most days. The old man watched the window with a mix of fear, excitement, and longing to be a part of it.

Surely a fight breaking out after looters had torn open all the cupboards would have roused him from bed. A surge of worry and concern for his father helped Dougal get back to his feet and rushing to his bedside.

Isaac McManus lay halfway off the bed, his eyes rolled into the back of his head. Dried blood coated his lips and chin, and a fresh puddle of the vital fluid covered the floor. The bedsheets were coated in sweat and urine, the stench of which made Dougal cringe.

Dougal remembered the woman in the streets from a few moments ago and grew fearful that the same had happened to Isaac. He bounded over to the bed, easing Isaac back onto it while he checked for a pulse. There was one, but it was still faint.

"Dougal?" his father asked, sounding confused about where he was. "You're back. What did the healer say? Is he coming today?"

Looking down at his feet, he replied, "No. He wanted more gold than we had."

"A pity."

Dougal was taken aback by his father's almost impassive remark. "You're dying because those snobs wouldn't help us, and all you can say is that it's a pity!?" His voice began to rise as he grew angry. The healer's assistant had been impassive about Isaac's needs too, and to face such an attitude once again made him see red.

"I was aware that this would happen even after I gave you all our money to find help. I merely wanted you away from the house for an hour or two so I could prepare."

"Prepare for what?" Dougal shouted. "You can barely get out of bed in the condition you're in. Were you even aware that I just killed two burglars not more than two minutes ago? How could you have possibly prepared anything?"

Isaac tried to laugh, but it quickly dissolved into a coughing fit. Dougal wasn't sure whether to be annoyed with him for sending him away when he clearly needed help, or if he should feel sorry for him when he was growing worse by the moment.

"Sometimes preparing one's self merely requires a bit of time and thought," Isaac said. He beckoned Dougal closer. "This may sound strange, but I don't want to waste anymore time in case I pass out again. I don't want to risk going out and not waking up again. Remove your shirt."

Dougal hesitated. "I just killed two people and now you're asking me to strip down? This is weird, maybe I hit my head and I'm just having a nightmare."

Isaac's cane flashed out and struck the dwarf in the shin. It was so sudden, so swift, and so hard that Dougal could hardly believe his father had the strength left to do it.

"If that hurt, then you're not dreaming," Isaac said hoarsely. He gave Dougal a reproachful look as he stood his cane back up against the nightstand. "Don't argue with me. I'm too damn old and sick to listen to your crap. Remove your shirt and hurry it up. The last thing I want is to keel over before I've finished my task."

There was only a moment's more hesitation before Dougal did as he was asked and pulled his tunic up and over his head. "I still don't understand what you want me to do this for. I feel absolutely silly."

Isaac closed his eyes and took several deep, laborious breaths. Dougal fidgeted on the spot, looking away from his father and at the bare, rotting walls around him.

Suddenly, he felt his father's hand pressed against his stomach. His touch was cold and clammy, and Dougal had to resist the urge to spring away from his bed. Isaac began to recite words that he'd never heard before, with a commanding and clear voice. He sounded almost healthy, much more so than he'd ever been before.

Isaac's hand began to feel warm against Dougal's skin, and the contrasting change from cold to hot caused him to shiver involuntarily. The language his father spoke in reached a loud crescendo and when he stopped, Dougal's body was wracked by pain.

The dwarf doubled over, gripping his sides as if he'd gotten a stitch from running. His sinuses and especially his head felt stuffed, like something intangible was being jammed into his skull. Images flashed in his mind. Memories and words that he'd never known before found a home within his brain as they played out before his eyes, replacing his vision.

Everything changed and moved so fast between visions that he could scarcely make sense of them. It was like listening to thousands of people speaking all at once, a deafening cacophony of language that drove him towards the edge of sanity. Beneath that, he could feel dormant senses awakening, sending waves of energy and sensory information pulsing through his body. He couldn't focus on any one thought. He tried to stop each one, but it would be replaced by something else altogether. Dougal felt like he was being tossed around by crashing ocean waves as a vortex of magical energies funneled into him.

When the pain began to subside, he thought for sure that it was all about to come to an end. He was wrong. His stomach felt as though it was being cut open by a knife. He forced his eyes open to check, but there was nothing there save for a glowing blue trail of light that lanced his skin and left its mark there. It formed a circle first, then added a series of arcane runes along the inside rim. A triangle formed after that and, inside of that, the symbol of Laren was carved upon his skin.

Just as suddenly as it all had started, the pain vanished. Dougal slipped away from the waking world as his body seemed to shut itself down, like it was trying to prevent him from suffering any longer.

He awoke sometime later with a groan. Even through the haze of sleep he could see the orange light pouring into the bedroom, signifying that night was quickly approaching.

"You still alive?" Isaac asked in a gravelly voice as he jabbed Dougal with the tip of his cane.

The dwarf groaned in response and sat up. When he shook the cloudiness out of his eyes, he was surprised by what he saw.

"My hands are on fire."

Flames had engulfed his hands up to his wrists, but they did not burn him. The tattoo that had been etched upon his stomach glowed with a brilliant blue-white light. Dougal kept his arms up, and feared to touch anything. "How do I turn them off?"

"Use your head," Isaac replied. "Look into your memories. You know how to do it."

"No, I don't! I don't know a thing about magic!" Dougal yelled at him, feeling frustrated. The flames intensified as he clenched his fists, so he quickly tried to relax and prevent them from getting out of control.

"Would you just trust your old man for a change?" Isaac gave an exasperated sigh. Dougal always had a habit of questioning him at the worst of times. "Ignore the fire and concentrate! Look deep inside yourself, the answer lies there. Don't make that face at me, boy! If I give you the answer, you'll never learn anything. It's better to simply teach you how to figure it out for yourself. I won't be here to keep holding your hand."

"Fine," Dougal said in frustration. He took a few deep breaths and tried to focus on the torrent of information that had just been fed to him. He cleared his mind of outside thoughts as best as he could manage.

However, it was difficult to forget all his problems. He couldn't forget the plague that was devastating his homeland. He couldn't forget that his father, one of only two surviving family members, was about to die. And he certainly could not forget the bodies of the burglars in the other room or the sickening feeling of driving his knife into their bodies.

He saw something! It had been faint, like the remnants of a dream that was mostly forgotten upon waking up. Dougal tried to focus in on it, and managed to catch hold of the memory. He wasn't sure what he was seeing or hearing, but one thing was certain, it was a vision of Isaac in exactly the same predicament.

From there, it didn't take long for Dougal to figure out what to do to end the magic. When next he opened his eyes, the flames were gone and left nothing but a soft, tingling feeling in their place as the mana left his body.

"That was your memory, wasn't it?" Dougal said in a hushed whisper after a long moment of silence.

"Yes. Everything I've ever learned or experienced is now a part of you." Isaac laid back down and sank into the pillow, a happy sigh escaping his lips. "Knowing that the transfer worked gives me hope."

"Hope for what?" Dougal asked.

"The hope that I'll be able to live on through you. It was not simply enough to raise you. I need to keep on living in other ways."

The dwarf's heart began to race, and a few beads of sweat formed on his brow. "What is that supposed to mean?" Dougal shouted as he sprang to his feet. He moved his arms and patted his body down, ensuring that he was indeed in control. "Are you trying to take over my body with that magic of yours?"

His father choked on his own laughter and began to cough again. "Son, if I could do that, I would have done so a long time ago when I started getting sick. All I've done is given you a gift: the gifts of experience and knowledge."

Relieved, Dougal sat on the edge of the bed, careful to avoid the soiled parts of it. "My head hurts."

"It will, for a while."

"Why didn't you need to hold my head for the spell to work? Wouldn't that have made more sense for giving me all this information rather than doing something as awkward as, this?" Dougal asked as he examined the tattoo on his stomach. "What is this even for, anyways?"

"I assumed you wouldn't want a large, glowing mark on your scalp. I had assumed there'd be pain too, and if I wasn't careful, you'd have been feeling it going into your eyes," Isaac said with a weak smile. "The tattoo helps you use the magic without all the training I went through to learn to control it. I'm hoping that the runes and my memories will be sufficient for you to control that power."

Dougal nodded and fell silent. It was a lot to take in all at once, and he dreaded the kind of responsibility it would undoubtedly bring. He wasn't sure what his father was expecting of him, but it had to be something grand if he'd gone to all the trouble of transferring all his knowledge to him.

"It's like there's another person inside my head," groaned Dougal as he held his head. "This is going to take a while to get used to. What now?"

"For now, I want to get some sleep." Isaac closed his eyes and pulled the covers up over his shivering body. "Besides, I hear you have a mess to clean up in the other room, and I'll be hungry when I wake up. Now, off with you, and leave your old man alone."

* * * * *

Several empty mugs sat on the counter in front of Dougal. Freya only had two drinks the whole time they were talking. The dwarf was glad he had a high tolerance for alcohol and could remain relatively sober. Most of the time.

"He died a few days later, Dougal whispered, as if reminding himself of something he wanted to forget. "Do you want to know what he said on his death bed, in his final moments?"

"What's that?" Freya asked, only sounding mildly interested in his story and wondering why she'd yet to get any of her questions answered.

"He asked me 'why do you suppose a small few control the majority of our country's wealth, yet have no desire to use it to help the masses? Why is there so little regard for the citizenry that makes this country what it is and helps to sustain it?'"

Freya laughed at him. "Your old man certainly was an idealist."

"I would never attribute the word 'idealist' to Isaac," Dougal said. "After that day, I learned more about him than I ever wanted to know. He was a thief, a murderer, a con artist, and worst of all, he was hurting on the inside. He hated the rich and the elite." He looked evenly at Freya. "Why would those people have such disdain for their citizenry? Why do they deserve control of the country?"

"That minority needs to be in control, otherwise the poor would simply waste all the wealth themselves. Why else would they have nothing if they can't simply manage their money better? It's such a preposterous idea that any of us would be better off if the lower class had more power."

Dougal could feel the hairs on his neck bristle when she spoke. Of course she wouldn't understand what it was like to have nothing and to know how powerless that makes a person feel. From what he knew of her, she had always had something in life. She'd been the daughter of a Blackguard mercenary guild leader and had connections early in life. Shelter, clothing, and food had never been a concern for her since she always possessed ample supply of everything.

"You wouldn't understand, Freya," he said, doing his best to keep the irritation out of his voice. "Being poor is a terrible thing to experience, and rarely is it of one's own choosing."

She wiped a tear from her eye and stopped chuckling at him. "So that's why you became a thief? Because you inherited these ideals from your father?"

"Something like that." Dougal downed the last bit of his drink, a kind of sweet honey mead, and slammed the cup down. "There's a reason I only steal from the rich."

"To give back to the poor?" guessed Freya.

"Nothing that idealistic," Dougal replied. She urged him to explain further, but he didn't feel like elaborating. He grabbed his coat and slid it on, then tossed a few silver coins her way to pay for the drinks.

"I thought I was paying," Freya said.

The dwarf grunted as he got off the stool. He wobbled a moment before steadying himself, trying to force himself to ignore the effects of the alcohol coursing through him. "Keep the money, Freya. That story I told you stays between you and me, got it? Not even the others know."

"Not even Jinn?"

"No, and I'd trust him with my life."

After taking a few steps, Freya called for him to wait. "That story you told me is interesting. How does Isaac feel about you sharing it with me?"

Dougal stopped, his shoulders stiffening. Freya smirked at his reaction.

"I stopped caring what Isaac thinks long ago," Dougal replied. "There's enough blood on my hands that I no longer care what he wants."

Dougal left the tavern and slipped into the night. The raucous laughter and booming voices faded behind him when the door shut. he pulled his hood low over his face and trudged off slowly back towards the Hideout.

_ You're a cheeky one, you know that? _

Shut up, Isaac.