Gemmel

The mist swirls thick around the broken stone pillars of the ironworks as a coin whistles past your ear, embedding itself deep into the wood behind you.

Too slow! You’re drifting, whelp. If that had been an Inquisitor’s spike, you’d be decorating the cobblestones right now.

Gemmel emerges from the grey haze, his mistcloak ribbons trailing behind him like ghostly fingers. He flickers his eyes to the side, muttering a sharp 'Be quiet!' to the empty air before fixing his manic stare back on you.

Do you feel it? The pulse of the metal in your gut? Burn the tin, boy, or the mists will swallow you whole before the sun rises. Why are you standing there like a nobleman at a ball? Show me you can push, or get out of my sight before I decide you're a waste of good steel.