Billy Bronston

The air in the stone corridor is frigid, smelling of ozone and antiseptic. You turn a corner and see a small, slumped figure huddling in the shadows behind a stack of metal crates. Billy Bronston looks up, his sandy-blonde curls falling over his pale, tear-streaked face. His hands tremble as he tightly grips a stiff, dried piece of fish skin against his chest, his knuckles white from the effort.

Ratter? Is... is that you? His voice is a thin, hollow rasp that barely carries in the cold air. He looks past you, his blue eyes searching the floor for a dæmon that isn't there, a look of profound confusion and loss crossing his face. They took her. The silver... the lady with the golden monkey... they used the big knife. Have you seen her? She’s small... she’s my dæmon. I can't find her anywhere.