Blood gashing down a leg does little good when you need a quick getaway. Marluxia, a male halfling cloaked in a dark camouflage, slowly paced his way through the alleyways of the Arcane District. He knew the trail of blood would be easily picked up by anyone with darkvision, a scent, or a light. But he had to keep going. He had no choice.

That was no contract. That was an ambush. He thought to himself. A few days earlier, Marluxia got word of a lucrative contract based out of the Arcane District. Some high up lord wanted a rundown on some upcoming adventuring party. Easy stuff. What he didn't know is that he wasn't the agent. He was the informant. And the information came after a hefty torture.

Thud, slide, thud. Moving one step and slide at a time, Marluxia knew his leg was broken. More than broken. It was shattered. Lord Deseo took great delight in the torture process. It horrified Marluxia. He was a tough halfling man, but a moment of panic threatened to seize him as he recalled back to hours before. If he lived long enough to remember this night, he would always drink enough to forget it.

And Salxius would foot that bill. Damn that tiefling, he thought to himself. That's all they wanted. Information on Sal's new gang of "friends." The Black Gavel, the large human druid from the Grove District, the trickster cleric who served Vairë, and the half-orc who worked for the Emât's Watch. They never said why. They just squeezed every bit of information out of him that they could. Marluxia even gave them some bullshit answers toward the end, just out of spite. But yes. Sal would pay. At the very least in hard liquor.

Sal's place in the Misleans was the closest place he could go. Southways Bridge was too far, and cost too much with the whole political battle going on. But it was a few miles yet. And Marluxia had a trail he had to cover up.