Brogan Rand walked casually through the streets of his new home. The second he'd reached its outskirts he could tell his disguise would not be needed here. His kind ruled Old Rose, that was in fact why he'd come. One day, it would be his.

His wanderings had led him into the market, he quickly put his bandana over his mouth and nose. No way he was going to catch 'creeping lung boils' from one of these wretches. He hated crowds but he knew there was someone here who could lead him Silas Hawke.

He'd been told to go to the King's Palace, so far he'd been unsuccessful in locating it. There had to be some of the Bad Brothers' people in the market.

Gracefully he skirted an old sea salt obviously stricken 'bander scratch' and made his way to a small clearing in the organized mayhem of the market. Off in a dark corner stood a strange looking individual with a single shifty eye.

"There's a bit of outlaw, I'd bet a pistol he knows whereabouts I can find The Brothers." Brogan said to himself. He did this often, a side effect of his 'brain cloud'.

Dropping his makeshift mask, Brogan approached the fellow. "Hello chum, got a fix on where a upstanding, experienced scragger like myself can find some employment?"

Shifty Jones, international man of mystery, was busy counting a handful of copper coins when Brogan approached. He quickly put them into one of his many coat pockets when the strange wick asked about employment. He scanned him with his single eye, mistrustfully.

"Ye don't look upstanding," he said, with frank honesty. "Ye look like sort of a criminal. My kind of people." He grinned. "What do ye have in mind, friend?"

Brogan grinned, a chilling sight, and hooked his thumbs in his belt. Doing so spread his hide vest and open shirt, displaying his Black Hand tattoo and trio of flintlock pistols.

"As a former gang leader me self, I know any criminal undertaking worth its clock is always in need of new talent. And here I am, just having a bit of trouble finding myself a worthy employer in a new town. I'm looking for the worthiest, the Bad Brothers." He said, a foreboding twinkle in his eyes.

"'Ats what I figured," said Shifty. "Black Hand, huh? Hawke ain't none too fond o' them, in general. Ye'll have to impress him some'in fierce. Head on up to his Palace, friend. It's up the slope near Cessanda's Oasis, past the waterfall an' a ways up the road. Looks out on th' whole Rose. Y'can't miss it - there's a blood big ol' statue of a hawk in the courtyard."

"Ah no problems with the Hand, its more of a reminder than a banner." Brogan replied. "The clan is not affiliated with the likes of me, we're both better off that way."

Brogan chuckled and clapped Shifty on the shoulder. "Mujo ma my friend, I'll be sure to be a bit choked up if I ever have to kill you."

Brogan wiped his hand on his pants as he turned to find his way to the place the helpful stranger had divulged. This was going easier than he thought it would.

Brogan followed his shifty new friend's directions and was reward with the sight of the Palace. Drops of water still clung to his hair and bare scalp from his walk past the misty waterfall. The huge hawk statue was quite intimidating as it sat watching the courtyard.

"I'd be clocked if this ain't the place." Brogan said to himself. "Oh yeah, this has to be it." He answered to himself, his early symptoms of 'split brain syndrome' making themselves known.

Being of the suspicious sort and knowing what he would do if he owned a fine house such as this, Brogan searched the area for booby traps as he made his way to the front door.

The area was strangely clear of traps, or even a wall to block outsiders from coming in. In fact, the road was deserted, as was the simply-for-decoration wrought iron gate that stood rusting on its hinges ahead of him.

Still, Brogan began to feel the invisible sting of many eyes watching him. His years of experience gave his instincts the edge that was needed to know when many different weapons were being pointed at you behind your back. There was no sound from the jungle, save the occasional cry of a bird, the flapping of wings, and the gentle drip of water from the trees as they swayed in the warm oceanic breeze.

Brogan was sure to keep his movements slow and inconspicuous. A wrong motion and trouble would come quicker than spit.

"I'm here to see about employment, I have invaluable skill in the business of violence and I heard Rose is full of good company. I know someone's there, show yer face and I promise not to blow it off!" Brogan yelled.

He watched the jungle for signs of movement, something to give his spectators position away. All he needed was a twitch for him to aim at.

There was no reply from the jungle; presumably, if Brogan had represented a present threat, there might have been more of a reaction.

Brogan grinned, he obviously wasn't deemed important enough to mess with at the moment. He patted his pistols and resting his hand on the grip of his favorite he continued to close distance with the large front door. He was less cautious, assuming if he was going to be hassled, it would have happened already.

"Let's see what the master of the house has for us my ladies." He said to his pistols. He sauntered up to the entrance and rattled off several loud strikes with the knocker.

Once again, there was no reaction. Brogan could feel the eyes on him still, watching to see if he would approach the mansion, waiting.

In front of him, he could see the wrought iron gate; it had a very simple latch, and did not appear to be locked.

Brogan approached the gate and after throwing the latch pushed it open. His fingers itched to pull his pistols and go to work, he lived for it. He flexed his fingers near his belt as he walked on through the gate. The mansion loomed before him. He wondered what action on his part would be the trigger to set his silent observers into action.

"Clever, good to be among proper villians again." Brogan muttered to himself. He picked his way along the path toward the house, counting his steps and expecting each one to be one too far.

Again to Brogan's surprise, he was allowed to approach the high marble steps without incident. As he came closer to the mansion, he could see how grand and ancient it truly was; in fact, it was more like a temple. The cracked stone was worn smooth and covered with ivy and moss, carved with intricate designs that looked vaguely tribal. Above him, the massive structure stretched into the heavens with hundreds of open windows looking out on the harbor. He was certain it could house a whole army of renegades.

One hundred stairs led up to the double doors. Brogan could see a group of men lounging outside the doors, smoking opium pipes and cackling about something. A few of them were tossing dice, probably playing Carrot. He could see a few multicolored whice on their shoulders.

They hardly looked like seasoned defenders, but even a hundred steps down he could spot the glint of cold steel at their belts.

Brogan ascended the stairs at a quick pace, wanting to reach the top but not put the "guards" on edge needlessly. Enemies would be made eventually of course, that was common among the outlaw community, but it was foolish to do it without good reason or at least an understanding of the politics. Allies and enemies within an organization were as useful a tool as the polished pistols he held in easy reach.

As he neared the top Rand made a whistle to make no mistake of his presence. "Good day to ya lads. Got a fine game going there I see, don't want to disturb you. Looking to see the master of the house. Heard he's looking for some skillful villains, what say I pop up and talk with him?" Brogan asked with a cold smirk.

It was never that easy but if he steered these fools right, he might get a little bit of fun in as well as a job.

The men looked up, sneering and chuckling. A particularly large, pock-marked man gestured to the carrot table, where a new game was in play.

"Lookin' fer work, then?" he said casually. "'ere, have a seat. We're what you might call a Board of Trustees, ain't that right, gen'lmen?"

His posse grinned, eyeing Brogan up and down. "He looks quite able to me," said one man with a heavy Bastian accent. "Not a weak, skinny little thing like you, Remses." The others laughed. Remses snorted into his flask of rum.

"Aye, but can 'e be trusted?" said an older man, peering up at Remses with a single, bloodshot eye. His jowls quivered.

"'Course 'e can't," said a woman in the back. She was a witch, from the look of her, and the back half of her head was shaved bald; her long, purple hair was tied in a top-knot. "Otherwise 'e wouldn't be here!"

Brogan crossed his arms and grinned. "I'm as trusty as any of you lads I'm sure, I's ain't no clocking dobby if that's what yer getting at Mr. Remses." he said.

"You need something doing that will prove my loyalty as it were. Don't go thinking me a tallyboy but I'll do something quick and dirty for Mr. Hawke if he so requires. My name will be feared in this salty port before the rainy season regardless." He continued, as he said the last bit his smile turned into a poisonous sneer and he placed his hands on his hips spreading his vest wide. His pistols glistened in the light and the large black tattoo drew all eyes to his chest.

"We don't work that way, lad," said Remses, grinning. "Ye'd be a fool to mess with the King, everyone knows it. Hence, none're left to bovver with us. Natural selection. No need for tests. That's golly voo."

"Aye," said the woman in agreement, and the men nodded.

"Times've changed," said Remses proudly. "Ain't no one to dob to about our operation no more. It's given us an agreeable amount of secur'ty, it has. Don't get me wrong - we're still keen in the eye region. But have a seat, man. Play some bloody carrot whilst we negotiate."

He pointed with his knife at his mates. "This be Buckler," he said, gesturing to a toothless man with a shock of white hair, "Art," pointing to the large gentleman in a tiny, threadbare waistcoat and a fully stocked bandolier, "Toothy Ted," nodding to a strong-looking lad in his twenties, who smiled with large, white teeth, "an' Rinata. We calls 'er Rin." The witch sneered in greeting, crossing her arms.

"Well met friends, I ent got nothin but time. Let's have a game, I'm interested in hearing your negotiations." Brogan said as he sat next to Toothy Ted. "I dying to hear how a lethal cur such as myself can best serve the Brothers.

The carrot had already been set up, and Remses gestured for Viktor to make the first toss.

"Let me elaborate on our troubles, then, lad," he said, grinning wryly. "Per'aps ye've heard of our recent lay-offs? Those curs whose heads got laid off 'eir necks? Well, they were participatin' in a little scam on the waterfront."

Rinata spat, and Toothy Ted rolled a die after Brogan.

"A worldly-lookin' gentleman like yerself knows that Silas Hawke's Vein is the best route in the civilized world," said Remses. "But some black-blooded upstart from inland has gone an' got it into 'is head that what this port really needs is another vein cloggin' up the works, confusin' everybody. 'e's stealin' our market share, 'e is, an what's more, 'e's usin' inland money like some green-ersed landlubbery jackalope. People is turnin' in their birds. It's chaos."

"We nee' summun to fin' his erse an' kill it," said Buckler, indistinct from lack of teeth.

"It's not just one man," said Rinata impatiently. "'e's started enlisting our men, promising 'em things they've no intention of paying. The idiots are getting suckered in. It's a whole operation, see? Probably based in Old Rose 'erself. Hawke's livid."

Brogan looked up from the game as Remses finished. "Had a bit of the same trouble meself when I was controlling the road to Vienda. 'Nother gang thought it looked like easy money and started cutting in on my profits." Brogan spat.

He made his toss before continuing.

"Me and my lads used one of the carriages we'd liberated a few weeks before and made it up to look nice and juicy for an easy lift. The stupid blighters couldn't resist." Brogan laughed cruelly and pointed to a section of his black hide vest. "This scrap here is their boss' hide."

"Did these bobbing idiots of yers give any details on where or who their contacts are? If so, seems we may be able to send an informant in."

"One of 'em said somethin' about a "Lord Sparrow", can ye believe that rubbish?" said Remses, spitting and rolling the die casually. "Prob'ly makin' light o' King Hawke, the bugger. Ye look like a man what knows how to deal with an interloper. But we're gonna need more'n one man to take down this lot."

"But Remmy, 'e looks pretty capable," said Rinata, grinning and chewing on the tip of one of her knives.

"We need to find a way to put 'oles in their ships," he answered, "an' then their 'eads. Gotta figure which ships is honest buggers workin' fer Hawke an' which is solo tradesmen an' which is workin' fer the Drain."

"'At's what we calls it," said Toothy Ted, cackling. "Th' Drain. Ain't that a larf."

"Shut up, Ted," said Art, in a derisive voice. Ted shut up.

Brogan stroked the pearl handle of his pistol as he thought. He wasn't well known in Rose just yet. It could most definitely work to his advantage.

"Seems as my face isn't known round Old Rose, I'll do some pokin' round at the docks, see what jumps." Brogan said.

His right eye began to twitch, it was a nervous condition that came about when he had an especially ingenious plan brewing.

"Might even get lucky and get hired on for the drain, then we'll see what needs doing to stop it up for good. I'll bring the "Sparrow's" head to Mr. Hawke, he's got the word of Brogan Rand."

"Tha's the idea," said Remses, grinning mischievously and showing off a golden tooth. "It's on'y fair, right? They've probably got a score o' scurvy traitors inside our little band. Lissen, let's get ye an audience with the King. He'll set ye up right n' proper. New name, new digs, what have ye."

"Carrot," announced Rinata, who had won the game. The others looked up at her, and she grinned. "Pay up, men. Then I'll take the kid up to see his Nibs."

Grumpily, Remses and the others dug around in their pockets for a couple of round coins, which they dropped with a clink on the makeshift table. The witch scooped them up deftly into a bag.

"I do love a group what's all business. When ever you feel its proper, I'm ready to see the man." Brogan said, adding his birds to the pile of Rinata's winnings.

Even if things went wrong while he was undercover, at least he'd get to kill a few folk, it had been a while and he was starting to feel rusty. His girls were thirsty for a kill.

"Come on, then," said Rinata shortly, stepping over the crate. He could see that her bare legs and feet were covered in tattoos, vast swirling works of art done in earth-colored ink on her brown skin.

The double doors to the manor had a decidedly disused air to them; though once grand and expensive-looking, the years had left a grimy patina on the chipped gold paint. The entire manor, upon close inspection, had the look of a lavish queen gone to seed in the hull of a filthy ship. Moss grew along the edges of fine marble, which was chipped and worn in certain places, and occasionally dotted with bullet-holes; the wood and plaster on the interior walls was moldering, coming apart in places, and the wallpaper had peeled away from the heat and moisture of the jungle. Underfoot, the thick, luxurious carpet was bare and patchy in places, strewn with dirt, leaves and vines.

"'ome, sweet 'ome," quipped the witch, stepping around a large patch of what looked like dried blood. "Don't step on that spot - it's cursed. Up the stairs now, watch your step. So what keeps you from 'ighway robbery these days, Rand? I'd think that'd be profitable enough work for a man such as yourself. Got 'igh aspirations?"