It is a narrow, grim tavern, filled with the stink of stale beer, vomit and the metallic tang of dried blood. This tavern is filled with grim men and tired looking women. A tall man enters. His clothes are impeccable, yet antiseptic. His attire reflects not a joy of appearance but meticulous attention to correctness. His face is gaunt and stiff, his eyes behind dark glasses. Even in this place, he draws the glance of all present, and fills them with a chill.
“You men. I require men of action. Men of blood. Men who are unafraid to do violence.
He throws a faded piece of paper, with a photograph cut from the news, the name “Septimus Quiet” emblazoned across its banner.
“I need you to find this man.”