The place had seen better days, but first impressions could be deceiving.

Oak frowned at the Old Workshop and its chipped brickwork. Mismatched and derelict were words that came to mind, but who was he to judge how the Pazuzus wanted to handle their own affairs? At least ten different types of shutters covered the expansive two-story building's large windows, and only the sorry remains of painted plaster peppered the outer walls.

Even those few spots of color were at odds with each other, letting all who cared to ponder such things know the building had been painted over many times before it fell into disrepair.

"Is this really the place?" Yakubu asked, looking pointedly at Driss, who Oak held by the scruff of his neck like a beaten dog.

"It is, it is! By Mother's mercy, I told the truth, alright!" Driss wailed. "Around this time of day, the boss is usually inside." The thief swallowed and pulled on the collar of his ratty brown robes. "Is there any chance I could go now?"

Ur-Namma cackled, which was just unkind. There was no reason to mock the poor fellow for trying his luck.

"No." Oak replied and made his way to the door, dragging the struggling young man with him across the narrow street. Yakubu, Ur-Namma, Sadia and Geezer followed right behind him, while the Sakyi siblings brought up the rear. Baako and Onyeka watched the windows like a pair of hawks, eyes peeled for anyone looking to nail one of their retinue with a crossbow bolt.

You never knew what to expect when you dealt with lowlifes. In Oak's humble opinion, it paid to be prepared.

Knocking by repeatedly smashing Driss' skull on the door would have been fun, but Oak restrained himself and used a fist instead. Using a member of the gang as a battering ram might have given the people inside the wrong idea about the nature of their visit.

If we get what we want, there will be no need for violence. If we don't, well. All bets are off.

After a few hard knocks that almost rattled the door off its hinges, a squirrelly looking fellow with unkempt hair and an unreasonably well-groomed mustache opened the door. The contrast between the bird's nest on the doorman's head and the oiled and braided hairs under his nose was striking enough that Oak did a double take.

Maybe it is a fashion thing. Would it be weird if I asked?

While he pondered the local grooming standards, the doorman stared stupidly at the giant meat cleaver strapped to Oak's chest, blinking like he had a hard time believing his own eyes. For a man two-heads shorter than Oak, the weapon hung at head height. He could understand why the squirrelly gang member was confused, but time was a-wasting, so Oak took charge of the coming conversation.

"Hey, little man. My eyes are up here." Oak grinned in a manner he hoped might be friendly. Chances were, it was anything but. He pulled Driss into view. "We need to have a word with your boss."

"Hi, Waheed," Driss said and waved awkwardly at the stupefied doorman. "Need to see Karoukian. Real quick like."

The mention of Karoukian seemed to shake Waheed from his stupor. "Hold on a moment now. What is this about?" Waheed asked and nervously stroked his braided mustache, peering at the armed group of strangers outside the door with suspicious eyes. "We don't let just anyone walk in here."

"A group of men took my son and ten other children." Yakubu cut in, his voice rough with barely held back anger. The Koromite growled and fingered the pommel of his sword, visibly vibrating from impatience. "We need information."

"There you have it, Waheed. I'm certain you agree this is a grave matter of utmost importance," Oak said, and let the smile fall from his scarred face. "Now, you either take us to this Karoukian, or I'm going to fold you in half the wrong way around and use your tortured bleating to call over someone who will. Both options work for me."

"Waheed. Please do as he says," Driss pleaded, sweat running all the way from his forehead down into the scruffy beginnings of his beard. "He means it."

"Sure looks like it," Waheed replied, measuring Oak from head to toe with his gaze. Oak could almost see the gears turning inside the little man's head, as Waheed did the math on his chances of survival, if he tried to deny them entry. By the sour look on his face, the answer left much to be desired. "Well, come on then. The bossman is just down the hall."

Waheed beckoned them inside. Oak pushed Driss through the doorway first and followed right on the nervous thief's heels. He had to bend himself almost double to fit through the tiny doorway. No matter where I go, everyone is a fucking midget, and they have made the world in their sorry midget image. Hells. He straightened his spine with a satisfying crack, and much to Driss' dismay, grabbed hold of the thief again, before the moron got any ideas about legging it.

Compared to the building's exterior, the entrance hall was downright comfy, showing no signs of disrepair. Soft rugs covered the tile floor, and the Pazuzus had furnished the room with a pair of sofas and a plain, but solid looking table.

Even the white plaster covering the walls was intact. It looked fresh, like someone had recently painted it, and done so with care. First impressions, indeed. One image for the outside world, another for those in the know. Thanks to the Ears of Amdusias, Oak could hear the soft sound of departing footsteps vanishing further into the Old Workshop.

There had been another person close enough to hear their conversation with Waheed, and instead of showing themselves, they had gone to warn someone. Oak tried to be casual about it, but he checked the cleaver strapped to his chest would clear its sheath without issue.

Karoukian clearly ran a tighter ship than he let on.

Waheed marched across the entrance hall to one of the many doors leading deeper into the building and took Oak and his companions down a lengthy hallway, ending in a set of double doors. Walking slightly faster than necessary, maybe out of a healthy fear for his own safety, Waheed pushed the doors open with a bang, and shouted, "Look lively, lads! We have visitors!"

Beyond the doorway lay a large hall, converted from a workshop into something between a bar and a communal living space. Members of the Pazuzus lounged around in small groups, sitting on pillows and playing cards or dice on top of low tables. Good cheer and stiff drink seemed both abundant. A wooden walkway circled the entire hall and Oak could spy a few fellows up there, engrossed in hushed conversations.

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All in all, there had to be at least fifty men and women in the Old Workshop, under Karoukian's beck and call. And every single one of them turned towards Oak and his companions, palming knives, clubs and other implements of violence.

Waheed didn't look so concerned anymore.

Ah. Violence. My favorite activity. Sadly, we can't start killing folk just yet. Oak walked out of the dark hallway, dragging Driss along by the collar, and his companions fanned around him, making space for each other. Everyone kept well out of his reach, leaving him unsure whether he should feel flattered or insulted.

Everyone who could, that is. Driss obviously didn't count, since he was a walking, talking sack of meat.

"There are quite a lot of the bastards," Sadia whispered to Ur-Namma from the center of their formation. "Can we take all of them?"

"Hush now, girl. It is too late for doubts," Ur-Namma whispered back. "Keep a spell on your lips, in case this turns bloody."

Sadia nodded jerkily and gave Geezer a scratch, taking deep breaths. If the little spellsinger felt perturbed, the Sakyi siblings were anything but. Baako and Onyeka stared at the gang members the same way a rathound looks at a field full of fat rodents. Unlike a pair of rathounds, they both had a buckler and a short-sword in hand.

Bloodthirsty, and they have opposable thumbs. The best of both worlds.

"We are looking for Karoukian!" Oak roared. "A little bird told me he is the man in charge around here." He lifted Driss in the air by the back of the youngster's neck and shook him for emphasis. The lad squealed in fright, and protested the rough treatment, but Oak ignored him with practiced ease.

"Quite right, quite right. My name is Haytham Karoukian, and I am indeed in charge around here." A stocky man in his late forties stepped into view from behind a support column near the center of the Old Workshop floor, holding a pint and smoking a cigar. He had a hint of gray around his temples and a confident smile on his clean-shaven, angular face.

Three toughs with batons in hand flanked Karoukian like loyal dogs. Oak had to admit the man had a flair about him. Dressed in fine silks and wearing an eyepatch over his left eye, he looked roguish enough to sweep a dozen ladies off their feet.

I already hate him. Good. It's going to make threatening him easier.

"Hmm. You lot are a strange crew alright. What brings you to my humble abode?" Karoukian asked and spread his arms, as if to envelop the entire workshop and everyone in it in his embrace. "Oh, and before you answer that, would you mind letting go of young Driss? He looks uncomfortable, to say the least."

"Might as well. He has served his purpose," Oak replied and dropped the thief. Driss scrambled away like the rat he was, and hid behind the back of the nearest thug, who looked at the sweaty youngster with derision.

Karoukian waved them closer, so they would not have to shout at each other. Oak was glad. Closing the distance would have been the hard part. He and his troupe of murderous ducklings wound their way down a winding path across the hall, past groups of men trying to look tough and only mildly succeeding, until they stopped a respectful distance away from the leader of the Pazuzus and his little honor guard.

The rest of the gang moved closer, surrounding them from all sides. After a quick round of introductions, they got down to business.

Yakubu stepped past Oak and cleared his throat. "Well met, Haytham Karoukian. I apologize for our sudden and unannounced arrival, but time is of the essence. This morning, a group of men snatched eleven children, my son Itoro among them, from the streets of Old Duwari."

"A sad and all too common tale," Karoukian replied. "I assure you that me and mine had nothing to do with it."

"We are not here to accuse you or yours. The culprits were not locals. They are dark-skinned in comparison and wear foreign garb. We seek information about them." Yakubu clenched his fists tight, but his voice betrayed nothing of his inner turmoil. "Locations. Leads. Anything the Pazuzus might know about foreign slavers hunting for children in the streets of Mashkan-shapir."

"Hmm, I see." Haytham Karoukian took a sip from his pint and leaned against the support column by his side, brow furrowed in thought. "I am sympathetic to your plight, Yakubu Nkruma, but the fate of your son is not my concern. The Pazuzus aren't a charity. Could you even pay me and my boys for the trouble of turning the city inside out in search of these missing children?"

"I doubt it." Yakubu replied. "I'm not a man of great means."

"Well, there you have it," Karoukian said. "I wish you all the luck in the world in your future endeavors, but I'm afraid all of you need to leave. Now."

Oak stalked forward, unhurriedly, like he was on a calm midday stroll.

Two of Karoukian's bodyguards, bald and tattooed men wielding nasty looking batons, moved to stop him, but he slapped the daylights out of the one on the left, and backhanded the one on the right into next week before the man could blink. Both thugs fell on their asses, all thoughts of further action knocked out of their heads by the brutal smacks of Oak's shovel sized hand.

The third thug wanted no part of what Oak could dish out, and backed away, hugging his baton in the same way a child holds onto their favorite doll.

"I'll be!" Karoukian sputtered and tried to take a step back himself, but it was too late. Oak was close now, right in his face, and there was nowhere to run. The Pazuzus on the workshop floor stood frozen in indecision, utterly surprised by his brazen violence and disrespect.

That didn't mean Oak and his friends were out of the woods yet. Sounds of straining wood and string floated into Oak's ears from the walkway circling the hall. Bolts rattling against each other, polished wood sliding against polished wood. Someone, or perhaps two or three someones, had just loaded a crossbow.

Better get this over quickly then. Time to use my gifts of persuasion. Oak laid a hand on Karoukian's shoulder and squeezed a little, giving the man a small taste of his strength. "Easy now, lads and ladies. I just want to have a friendly chat with your boss."

Something foul slithered forth from the festering Pit of his mind and a red hue creeped in, staining his vision. The shadows of the Old Workshop pulsed in sync with the beating of Oak's wrathful heart. It wouldn't take much to yank that shoulder out of its socket, the Butcher whispered. You could do it right now. Rip apart the cartilage and gristle.

Change him forever.

Oak did not shout. He spoke softly, but it carried far in the frozen silence.

"In my first pitched battle, it rained like the world was ending. Couldn't see five feet in front of me. I crawled over piles of dead in the mud and ripped out the throat of a carl with my teeth. He tasted like iron and fear." With reverence, Oak pulled his meat cleaver from its sheath and leaned closer to Haytham Karoukian, shaking with anticipation. "I will stack corpses up to the ceiling and keep killing you fucks until this blade here loses its edge. It's Elven make, self-sharpening."

Everything else had fallen away. Oak could see nothing but the piece of dead meat in his iron grip. Its single eye, yawning wide with horror. The cigar clenched in its mouth, teeth biting at its bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. His hot and heavy breath fluttered Karoukian's dark hair as Oak pressed his mouth close to the man's ear. "Go on. Deny me," he whispered and stroked the gang leader's throat with his thumb. "Tell me there is nothing you can do. I want an excuse."

Somehow, Karoukian managed a sickly grin and breathed out a cloud of cigar smoke. "Let's not get hasty, now. Maybe there is something I could do for you, after all."

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