Alph settled into a shadowed corner booth at The Sturgeon, evening settling over the bustling tavern like a cloak. The air hung thick with the reek of brine, stale sweat, and cheap tallow. He kept his hood low, his back against the damp wood of the wall. The journey from Val Karok had settled into his muscles as a dull ache, but his mind remained a sharp instrument of observation. He ordered an ale, a burnished copper glint beneath the dim lantern light, but left it untouched alongside a cold meat pie he had no intention of eating.
He was here to observe, to weigh the soul of a man against the edge of a blade. Shaper’s warning echoed in his mind; direct conflict was a last resort. But as he waited, he felt a familiar, cold detachment settle over him—a narrowing of focus that always seemed to precede a hunt.
A waiter approached, weaving through the crowd of dockworkers with the practiced indifference of a man who had seen everything. He set a fresh mug down, his gaze flicking to the copper coin Alph had already placed on the scarred wood.
"I am looking for a man," Alph said, his voice a mere thread in the clamor. "Broad shoulders. A scar runs from his mouth to his ear. I was told he’s a regular here."
The waiter’s hand stalled, eyes flitting to the door and back to Alph. A tremor shook him. He swallowed hard. "I don’t know who you mean. We get many travelers."
Alph’s fingers hovered over the second copper, the cool metal biting into his skin. This one’s scared. But not of me. The realization settled in his gut, sharp as a blade’s edge. He let the coin drop, the dull clink swallowed by the tavern’s roar.
His face remained a mask of neutrality, but his eyes calculated. "Easy," he said, his voice low enough for the waiter to lean in. The man's breath stank of stale ale mixed with fear. "I’m not here to drag anyone to the constables." A half-truth, but it worked. He tapped the coins with a fingertip—a deliberate gesture. "Just a man looking for stories. The kind they don’t share at the market."
The waiter’s greed won. He snatched both coins, tucking them into a deep pocket, though he kept his voice to a jagged whisper. "He's here mostly at the week's end. Tends to show his face around then, anyway. Used to be a porter at the docks, years back. Stronger than three men, but he kept to himself. Then he awakened. Something in his head must've twisted with the change. He stopped hauling crates and started taking what wasn't his before long."
Alph noted the details—a weekly trend, a laborer’s past. "A thief?" he prodded, his gaze dropping to the waiter's white-knuckled grip on his tray. "Common enough in the docks. But it’s not enough to make you look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s the real story?"
The waiter’s tongue darted out, wetting his cracked lips as his gaze flicked toward the far corners of the tavern—where the lanterns barely reached and the shadows coiled like living things. His fingers twitched against the tray, knuckles whitening. He knows more. And he’s afraid to say it.
Alph’s fingers dipped into his pouch, the leather creaking softly. He withdrew a third copper, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger until the dull glow of the ever-lamp caught the edge, flashing a brief, cold spark. The waiter’s eyes locked onto it, pupils dilating. "Not for tales you tell drunkards," Alph said, voice steady. "For what you've seen. What you haven't dared repeat. So, what is it about him that makes your voice rough and your hands go cold?"
The coin hung suspended, a silent promise. Or a threat. The waiter's throat worked, his Adam's apple bobbing. He's deciding whether the copper is worth the risk. Alph didn't rush him. Patience was a weapon, too.
The waiter licked his lips. "Graves," he whispered. "They say he claws them open at night. Takes rings from bony fingers, silks from corpses still warm."
A shudder ran through him. "But it’s not just theft. Folks say something followed him out of one of those pits. That his gaze darts each time the lanterns dim, like there's something else looking through 'em."
He leaned closer, voice dropping. "Last week, a boy spilled a drop of ale on his coat. The man didn't yell. Didn't curse. Just gripped the lad’s arm and squeezed until the bone snapped."
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The waiter's knuckles whitened around his tray. "He was smiling all the while the boy screamed. It wasn't a human smile."
Alph released the coin. The waiter snatched it like a talisman against the dark. "Do not look for him," he warned, backing away. "Whatever wears his skin is not hungry for ale anymore. If I were you, I would be on a boat out of Gloomwater by sunset."
The man melted into the crowd, leaving Alph alone with the weight of the words.
Graves. That was different. That wasn’t just theft. That was violation.
Alph stared into his untouched ale. The reflection of his own dark eyes stared back. Grave robbing, senseless violence, and a possible supernatural taint. The Grave Robber of Gloomwater fit Rook’s criteria, deserving more than he had expected. He felt that cold, hollow expectation in his gut again, the one that didn't care about the morality of the act, only the gravity of the target.
The last day of the week meant two more nights of waiting. Two more nights for that cold expectation to curl tighter around his thoughts.
Alph seized the tankard, downed the dwarven ale—caramel sweet, toasted biscuit—and let it burn. He set the empty tankard down on the rough wooden table. The thud was soft but deliberate, a sound of containment.
Outside, the dock lanterns swayed in the salt wind, their light fraying at the edges like worn rope. Somewhere in the labyrinth of warehouses and silt-choked alleys, a grave robber was counting stolen trinkets.
And Alph would be counting the hours.
Alph exited The Sturgeon, the tavern’s boisterous sounds fading behind him. He clutched a cheap bottle of ale, its contents already half-gone. The cool night air of Gloomwater Docks bit at his exposed skin. He pulled his hood lower, obscuring his face. The dockside teemed with activity, even at this late hour. Lanterns cast flickering shadows over lowstone quays and warehouse piers. The air hung thick with the smell of brine, stale ale, and something vaguely metallic.
He moved with the practiced shuffle of a man accustomed to hard labor, blending into the stream of dockworkers. Their conversations, rough and punctuated by curses, washed over him. He caught fragments: arguments over cargo, complaints about wages, muttered threats against rival gangs. Occasionally, a name surfaced, or a hushed reference to “that bastard” who desecrated graves.
Alph filed these away, allowing the information to settle. Nervous waiters had their own agendas and fears that influenced what they shared. He needed independent confirmation, details that transcended whispered fragments in darkened corners. The truth lay deeper than surface gossip.
A cluster of dockworkers huddled near a stack of crates, their voices thick and slurred with drink. They passed a dented metal flask between calloused hands, their raucous laughter bouncing off the damp warehouse walls and dissolving into the mist-heavy air. The sharp stink of cheap spirits hung around them like a cloud.
Alph approached with measured steps, uncorking his bottle with practiced ease. He leaned against a nearby crate, letting his shoulders sag and his breathing deepen, presenting himself as a man worn down by a long shift. The wood pressed cold and rough against his spine through his shirt. He took a long, deliberate swig, feeling the burn trace down his throat, then extended the bottle toward the nearest man, a burly human with a gap-toothed grin and forearms like timber beams. The offering hung between them, an invitation wrapped in shared exhaustion and alcohol.
“Rough night,” Alph grunted, his voice low and gravelly.
The man grunted back, accepting the bottle. “Always is, lad. Always is.”
Alph settled in, listening more than speaking. The men complained about their foreman, about the perpetual dampness, about a recent brawl that left two men missing day's work. Alph waited for his opening, for the natural lull in their grievances.
"My neighbor back home, she's been crying for three nights straight," Alph said. "I couldn't catch a good night's sleep last night."
"What's got her so upset?"
"Her mother, dead a year now, resting peaceful. Or so she thought." He shook his head, taking another slow drink. "Someone dug her up."
"Terrible business. Can't even let the dead lie."
The men exchanged glances. The burly man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Grave robber, eh? Aye, heard a few stories like that lately.”
Another man, thin and wiry, spat onto the cobblestones. “More than a few. Seems like that fiend’s been busy.”
Alph kept his expression neutral, a careful blend of weariness and mild outrage. “Fiend? You mean there’s one man doing all this?” He made sure his voice conveyed only a neighbor’s frustration, not an investigator’s keen interest.
"You didn't hear the rumors, lad?" the man chuckled. "The fiend's been at it for months."
Alph's focus tightened. These dockworkers had the real intel—they'd worked beside the target, shared smoke breaks, swapped gripes. They could give him personal details, habits, weak points, the kind of dirt no records held. All for the price of cheap ale and a lie.
What was the most unsettling detail revealed about the target?
