-Prelude-
	As Moraine walked, he considered the hollow city. A dreary place full of murder and theft, Northgate was the only home he knew, though that didn’t mean much. Nearby he saw a pair of large men beating up one of Northgate’s consulates who ceased their actions and bowed as he passed, as though he were the king of this gray and ugly place, which indeed he was. As the best thief in the city he was considered untouchable by law or otherwise, though he cultivated many enemies with his smug attitude and his almost blatantly false overconfidence, something he gleefully exhibited in front of the two muggers, nodding at them and gesturing in the Silent Cant to carry on.  
He had business to attend to today, no time to gab with his subordinates. Lord Salisburg made a few snide comments regarding his prowess last night in private court to one of his so-called friends, who in truth was a spy for the Court of Night and needed to be taught a lesson. After an hour of uneventful travel through the unwatched dark alleys of Northgate he finally arrived at the mansion and gazed upon its crimson brick walls, a rarity in a city of grays and blacks and a garish testament to its owner’s arrogance, something that will be rectified this night. 
He crept to the wall with a smile and pressed up against it, listening to the faint conversation being held on the other side between what he presumed were a pair of guards. The gruffer of the two voices complained loudly, “Why’re we guardin the walls? Nuffin stupid enough ta try ‘n break in.” while the less harsh voice responded, “Aye, ‘n that’s why ye’re a drunkard, come lets go back to the kitchens ta get ye sobered up a tad.” Moraine smiled grimly as he agreed with the sentiment, indeed if anyone could succeed at this heist it would be due to his brilliance.
Taking advantage of the absence of the pair of guards he caught his hook and rope neatly on a bit of the crenellations and began to silently climb upward, his animal like perceptions tuning out the night as he pulled himself over the top of the wall and collected his means of entry, stowing the black cord and collapsible hook in a leg pouch. A quick glance about assured him there was none who might ruin his chances at the object he intended to pilfer and spurred him to drop down over the other side, landing neatly on his feet in an almost feline fashion behind a hedge wall in the topiary garden, which was filled with distorted hellish shadows, malformed by the mixture of torch and moonlight. Despite its utter normalcy in design, Moraine was reminded of wizards who stocked their gardens with ensorcelled topiary monsters whom devoured interlopers, a thought that forced him to remember that there was a law against sorcery in Northgate, something that didn’t provide him much solace at all, prompting him to hurry through the gardens while flitting from shadow to shadow before he finally reached the mansion proper and a side entrance that he remembered was to the kitchens. 
He doused both torches near the door and opened it, listening intently for anyone that might be nearby, and finding nothing he slipped inside and closed the door, crouching low and letting his eyes adjust to the absolute blackness of the hallway just outside of the kitchens and picking out the sounds coming from the kitchen and galley. Creeping down the hallway to the right of the entryway to the kitchens he found what he was looking for, the stairs down into the vault. A smile crossed his lips as he began to descend down the unlit stairs, his keen eyesight helping him find the steps in the gloom where another’s vision might falter until he finally found himself at a pair of enormous steel doors flanked by a pair of lit sconces and protected by nothing more than an oversized silver lock. His eyes almost caressed the doors, examining the intricate mural depicting the betrayal of King Rovald scene by scene. 
Moraine chuckled inaudibly to himself, noting only a novice wouldn’t see that the dagger aimed for the king’s back was actually a cleverly hidden button. Moraine snuffed both torches, fully expecting a guard on the other side as he pressed the button and watched the doors quietly slide open only to find the passage beyond empty. Smiling at his good fortune he began to glide across the russet marble floor to the entryway to the next room, which he carefully peered into. Massive alabaster columns supported the domed chamber that housed a small pure cobalt gazebo-like structure placed on similarly colored stairs and a man-made lake complete with all manner of strange fish. A bit of advice danced across his thoughts as he gazed upon this artificial beauty cautioning him to remember that not everything was as it seemed, the lake likely a host to a deadly trap to slay intruders not nearly half as skilled as he, something he sorely mourned as he constantly searches for a true challenge. He walked stealthily toward the lake and by proxy the stairs amidst the lake that lead upward into the building. 
As he reached the artificial lake shore he realized it was vastly deeper than he thought; a glimmer of silver and gold within the murky depths. He began walking around the shore, looking about for a bridge to the center, absolutely loath to step into what was obviously another trap. His eyes caught it, a long alabaster bridge stretching across certain aquamarine doom. Upon approach he started to stretch for a moment, limbering up as he prepared for another trap. After finishing his preparations he ran across the bridge, getting roughly three-fourths of the way across before hearing the sound of a weight released catch opening. He dove to the building, rolling as he hit the floor next to it and came to a stop, all while the bridge literally sank into the depths, foam rising where the bridge fell. He gave the foam a bemused look, reevaluating his opinion of the owner of this mansion.
He turned around smoothly, glancing into the structure and noting the elaborate mechanisms built into the roof and the gilded steel portcullis that looks to be designed to trap an unwitting fool in the small building until someone found him or he starved to death, a gruesome testament to the brutality of the mansion’s owner. A moment or two of digging in a sable pouch almost seamlessly sewn into the material of his right sleeve rewarded him with a small toolkit designed specifically for dismantling traps he found too troublesome to circumvent; and dismantle he did, throwing each part into the acid as he removed it before finally gazing upon the small altar inside and more importantly his prize, the signet ring of the White family, ancient enemies of the Salisburgs and almost extinct. The ring reminded him of how it came into Salisburg hands, something he regrets only partially. Moraine snatched up the ring and sprinted across the ivory bridge, again diving across the newly made gap as the bridge again sank. He stood up and dusted himself off before being interrupted by the sound of crumbling masonry, which as he turned around to see was the entire manmade island collapsing into the acid along with a previously unnoticed column supporting the center part of the ceiling. As the pillar plunged into the acid he quickly ran out the door as it slammed shut, climbing up the stairs in a panic and finally making it outside only to be halted by the click of a hand crossbow as a man in loose fitting black clothing topped off with a hood stepped out from behind a hedge wall and pointed it at Moraine. The assassin chuckled to himself in a pleased way and said, “Ye always did think ye were to good fer tha rest o’ us Mor m’boy, now yer gonna find tha punishment ya bloody sod.” And with that a rasp of metal and a sharp pain to the back of his head were the only warnings he got as he crumpled to the flagstones, darkness overcoming him as his unseen assailant guffawed in a self-pleased manner.
-Chapter One-
	Moraine awoke with a start to the salacious rasp of a blade being sharpened and oiled vigorously, almost in time to the tune that drops of water played in the darkness. His eyes slowly adjusted to the murky lighting, a fact he considered almost miraculous as he noted the single damp torch pinned to the stone cell wall with a rusty iron nail which seemed to have been used for more gruesome intents than it currently exhibited. It was exactly those gruesome intents which only drew his mind to his current situation and the obese man in the executioner’s hood preening his very lethal looking axe while simultaneously reminding him of his restraints, simple but effective chains. 
A few moments of observation and he was sure that struggling would not only prove ineffective, but would let his captor know he was awake. It was at this point that his considerations all became pointless as the large man finally finished his sharpening and began lumbering over to his victim his yellow and badly worn teeth showing as he grinned grotesquely and said, “Oi, so ye’re awake are ye? I’m gonna blood ya up real good, a shame I can’t eatcha, ya smell good.” The last word punctuated with a drop of drool from the hideous mouth, one side sagging horrifically even as the other was twisted in a pained smile. That smile was the only thing he could see through the pain as a few minutes later the huge man slowly and painfully began to saw off Moraine’s right arm, humming to himself in a strange voice that drowned out Moraine’s screams of agony as the saw toothed axe finally cut through the last of the shoulder, the arm tumbling to the floor as blood gushed from the wound only to be stifled by a hot brand the hideous man applied to the wound in a morbid fashion, dragging the brand across his victim’s face and chest and leaving horrid burns. Again darkness swallowed the poor man’s sight, thankfully blinding and deafening him to the feast his tormentor began comprising only of his severed arm.
-
	A fortnight later he found himself in Northgate Prison, his wounds mostly healed and a hatred for the man who ordered his right arm be hacked from his still living body, a man they called the Nightmaster. A title the man behind it enjoyed hearing at every waking moment, a title that ruled the various rogue factions of Northgate with an iron fist, a title that Moraine swore he would claw from existence and scatter to the four winds. The Nightmaster had arranged for both Moraine and his little cannibalistic torture-master to be caught after the dirty work had been done. The flesh-eater was executed on the day of his capture and a small celebration among the guardsmen was held for bringing Rictus, one of the worst murderer’s Northgate has ever seen to justice.
	At first all he did was practice using his left hand and arm with everything, using his copious spare time to regain the physical prowess he had lost while watching like a hawk for any sort of avenue of escape he could locate. The prisoners were fed twice a day, once in the morning and once at night, midday being used for recreational breaks, a blessing and a curse devised by one of the more criminally minded nobles.  It was a blessing because it was a form of freedom, albeit not much and a curse because they guardsmen watched the prisoners even sharper than they normally did. A smile crept across Moraine’s face as he thought to himself how crude the awareness of the guardsmen was compared to his own forensic acuity.
	He had been informed the day previous that there was a man who could give him something valuable to replace what he lost, a man called the Clockmaker. This Clockmaker was an eccentric man who ended up in the prisons forty-three years ago, for some reason provided with a full tinkering workshop and all the materials he needed on a regular basis, something which raised a few eyebrows in the prison, though none were raised as high as Moraine’s. His ineffable curiosity led him to investigate the old man, something that brought him where he found himself now staring at the fine reinforced oak doors with miniature stained glass windows and exquisite hinges, strangely untouched in a land of defiled walls and bloodstained floors. He strode through the double doors, a look of absolutely nonchalance on his face as he immediately had it struck down, the sight of the numerous clockwork devices lining the walls, floors, counters, piled on the tables and chairs awed him despite his lack of full comprehension. A thin rasp of sunlight spewed multicolored upon the workshop through another stained glass window, this one lined with silver gilt iron bars. Despite how vast and affluently adorned the room was, it was by far dominated by the man sitting at behind the counter, holding a hammer and what resembled some sort of mechanical ribcage, complete with unfathomable gears and mechanisms arranged in a fashion so recognizable that it begged to stay an enigma, his mind rejecting the familiar sight and instead concentrating on the man who held the device, the Clockmaker. 
A rail-thin old man with barely trimmed goatee and a scraggly moustache, the Clockmaker considered the machinery with his keen piercing eyes, belying a much more dangerous man than his appearance would evince. He adjusted his goggles and stared at Moraine while snorting derisively, “Wot d’you want from an ol’ pot like mehself?” Moraine stared for a moment before nodding toward where his right shoulder was and stating simply, “I’ve been told you can replace something I’ve lost.” The old man set down the device he was working on and stared at Moraine for a good long time from beneath bushy eyebrows that were twisted into an expression of almost worry as he asked one brief question, “Ye sure?” Moraine gave a smile that came off more reckless than reassuring as he said enthusiastically, “Absolutely!” which prompted the Clock Maker to turn away from Moraine and assume a contemplative pose, holding an arm behind his back and stroking his barely groomed goatee for a few moments, before turning back and stared at Moraine cunningly and whispered, “'elp me escape Damien Hirst, then it’ll be done.” Moraine smiled and said simply, “Damien Hirst shall harry you no longer.”