text: You walk inside the tavern by yourself, feeling the weight of your Leu-filled wallet in your side pocket. You walk along, and immediately garner the attention of everyone in the bar. Your garb makes it immediately clear to anyone but the most ignorant or simply stupid of the peasants that you're a servant of Count Grey. The tavern quickly clears out, heading to their various homes, leaving only a few idiots too old and stubborn or young and cocky to realize staying near you is death. 
  
  
  You toss a crumpled note on the counter, looking up at the bar tender expectantly. Soon, you find yourself drinking a pint, a plate of chicken, boiled potatoes and cabbage in front of you. You smile, eating it up eagerly, downing the pint in a few gulps. You belch loudly, smiling as you find yourself now filled with food, warm and content.
  
  
  "Where's the bathroom?" you ask, feeling the need to piss rising as your full bladder demands you act.
  
  
  "Bathroom's broken. Go outside," the bar-tender replies.
  
  
  You raise an eyebrow, tapping on your hat.
  
  
  "Do you know who I am? Who I work for?" you ask.
  
  
  "I do. If he shows up here, I'm as happy to show him the broken toilet as I am you."
  
  
  You sigh, standing and walking outside into the alley. You unzip your trousers and pull out your dick, pissing onto the side of the old building.
  
  
  Suddenly, the cold blade of a knife is pressed against your throat.
  
  
  "Don't move," a deep voice whispers. "Hands in the air."
  
  
  "Do you expect me to let go of my dick and piss on myself?" you ask, more annoyed than scared.
  
  
  "Finish up," the voice says.
  
  
  You finish pissing, popping your genitalia back in your trousers, buttoning it up, and slowly turn to face your attack. Two teens, barely fifteen by the looks of it, both with short blond hair, one skinny, on large and muscular, stare at you. The skinny one holds a pistol, while the big one holds the knife pressed against your throat.
  
  
  "What's this about, gents? Revenge?" you ask, knowing just how many family's want your blood for taking their daughter's.
  
  
  "What? We don't know you," the big one says. 
  
  
  "The wallet. Now," the skinny one says.
  
  
  You pause, frowning.
  
  
  "Are you seriously fucking telling me you've decided to mug me?" you ask, surprised.
  
  
  "Why the fuck wouldn't we?" the big one asks, pushing you against the wall as the skinny one draws his own knife with his left hand, strolling forward to press the barrel against your temple.
  
  
  "Wallet. Now," he says.
  
  
  "Fucking idiots. You don't recognize the outfit, eh? I'm a fucking Ghoul, Count Grey's personal assistant."
  
  
  The big one looks at the skinny one nervously.
  
  
  "Maybe we should let him go," the big one asks.
  
  
  "He's bluffing," the skinny one says, licking his lips. "Ghouls... ghouls are rotten, aren't they?"
  
  
  "The sun's down, boys. Count Grey's due to wake..."
  
  
  "Shut it! Wallet, now!" the skinny one commands.
  > You attempt to negotiate
  "Look, you take my wallet, Count Grey's going to feel disrespected. Best case scenario, he sends me out with a rifle to track you down and..."
  
  
  "Shut it!" the skinny one says.
  
  
  "Let's just go," the big one says.
  
  
  "First, the wallet!" the skinny one says.
  
  
  "Worst case, Count Grey comes after you personally. He'll..." you say, before you're interrupted by the skinny one pulling the trigger, covering the wall with your brain matter.