Senior Officer Heinrich Zweilgard had never intended to start a family. Why would he? A man in his position would only be dragged down by such a thing. Less than a minor Haavic nobleman by birth, he had worked his way up the ranks of the city guards, then an officerl, and finally a captain. He was damned near nobility as far as he was concerned. And he and everyone else knew it.

Money, fortune, prestige: all were at his beck and call. Yet why did he suddenly find himself saddled with a woman named Selia Hallvers? Sure, she was beyond beautiful, and even though she was but a lowly Bahman textile worker, he explained this away as a mistake in genealogical lines which he had submitted to fourth committee of the lower council, soon to be in session, or some other such fabrication.

How could she not be noble, the way she shined in all the finery he clothed her in? He showed off his prize at all the parties, all the galas, the theater, the eating establishments, and even the pub. And so it was that he was rather surprised when, upon returning from several months of official military business, he was introduced to his son, the bouncing Rothrick Zweilgard-Hallvers. The next three years were lived as if in a daze for Heinrich. He still went to the theater, to the galas, to the parties, but now his lovely mistress carried with her a child. Oh, what a gorgeous baby, you must be so proud, they would say. Yes, so proud, he would respond, numb. His mistress, Rothrick's mother, was all beaming smiles.

In those days, she did much of his talking. No more was she a prize. As one year became two, and two became three, she became a burden. Her and her horrid son. No, not his. He didn't want the thing. He wanted to be free. And so, one morning, he left.

Selia, of course, expected him back. It was not, after all, unusual for the man to go off on business suddenly, though he had usually told her. A month, she waited, until, with surprise, she found herself with child again. She began to dig in to savings to live, to keep up her luxurious lifestyle, and to provide the best for her children, both born and unborn. Surely her handsome Senior Officer Heinrich Zweilgard would return soon to put things in order? Yet return he did not. Still, she lived, and when the second child came, she named it Katya Hallvers, and saw to it that Rotherick and Katya had the best schooling, the best teachers, the best of everything. Rotherick showed a talent for music early on, and Katya for dance. In fact, Rotherick would often play with the dance instructors, and Katya would dance, all glowing and smiles.

Yet every week, things began disappearing from their home. A golden candelabra, a set of fine crystal glasses, a painting, and even Mother's finest dresses vanished. “Her Heirich would return”, was the litany she began to live by. And so life carried on, and each year, a little more of Selia died. She came to know that Heinrich was not coming back. And for as much as she loved her children, she had loved Heinrich more. And so, when there was little left to sell but their home, Selia, Katya, and Rotherick moved into lesser dwellings, and for a time, they were as happy as they could manage. Yet time went on, and schooling grew less and less often, and of less quality. Two years later, with Katya now 5 an Rotherick now 8, the small family moved into peasant quarters. Times grew hard. The children grew lean, and they worked hard to support their mother, who had grown thin and gaunt in her consuming grief. And so, even while existing on bread and wine, eventually there was no more money to be had, and to the beggars hovels they went. Two more years passed, and while Katya grew bitter and angry at her need to beg and Rotherick turned his intelligence and charisma into tools for surviving, Selia gave in to grief and left. It was in the Tanner's Stink they found her, laid up in a noxious den of hallucinations and foul vapors, spending the last of her coppers on a day of stupefied nothingness. And there they left her, for the time being, to try and make their way, and let their mother find what pleasure she was still able to.

Rothrick, now 11, and known as simply "Rowf," had taken to panhandling, singing the songs of his youth, creating new songs, and orating wonderful stories that he would come up with on the spot. This was usually enough for a copper or two, which he would take back to his mother.

She would hunch there, in a dirty cot, smoking a pipe with some foul substance that made her forget who and where she was, reliving those wonderful days of her all-too-short time with Heinrich. She favored a particular place, and with great regret, for he loved his mother, he made a bargain with the 'proprietor:' he would bring a regular income to him, if he would keep his mother in a good cot, and give her anything she needed. The proprietor, a hard, angry man, agreed, for it was not an unusual thing to want to remain evermore in a cloudy haze of remembered glory. And so by day, Rowf would sing, dance, and spin yarns of such marvelous adventures that it would make a listener tear up for longing to see it all, and so earn enough of a pitiance to pay for his mother's continued care. By night he sought shelter in an old, abandoned shop and warehouse in the center of The Stink. Ol' FlatJack's, it was called, for the owner, Ol' Jack, still lay crushed beneath a crate of long-rotted leathers, only his shriveled boots showing from beneath the massive box. Rowf had discovered FlatJack's, and it was there that he held 'council' with his fellow street children. Hooligans all of them, some meaning well, some with only hate in their hearts, but all welcome.

Long they would sit and trade their daily tidbits of coin, food, and sundries, the darkness lit by a pitiful spark from a lantern that surely must be older than the city itself, until the stale oil swiped long ago from some merchants cart would run dry and they knew only darkness. And sometimes, when the fancy struck him, he would go see Katya, for he knew well of what had become of her.

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It had not always been like this.

Wandering The Stink, Katya Hallvers could vaguely remember being warm and without pain in her belly. There were bright colors on the wall, and someone to help out. Her mother used to smile.

Every year her mother smiled less. Glacially at first but with ever increasing speed they moved steadily towards the only place she truly knew now, the never-ending streets of the Stink. Her brother became a trickster and a beggar. Her mother just became a nothing. And she became angry.

How she ended up in The Coleseum, she did not remember. At least, not exactly. There were offers of something different, an escape, a realm of continual shelter, food. She yearned for that stability, wanted nothing more than some ease, and with that she followed the man perhaps a bit too quickly. Looking back on it now, had the stranger ever stated exactly what her task would be - did he dupe her or did she dupe herself? Locked in a dark room below street level she had time to consider it, whether her vision as a barmaid was her own or of his creation.

Alone, trapped, uncertain - whomever's doing it was mattered little now. Katya knew of the arena, everyone in the Stink knew about it. It a playground of the rich, who came to watch the 'sport', and perhaps a way for the poor to let off steam. For the best fighters it was a way to make coin, make tips, to just make it. For the worst it was a short drop to injury or worse. Katya was strong, was lithe, was always one to cry out for movement. But she was no fighter. Her strength was matched only by her inexperience.

The management of The Pit knew the difference between sport and a massacre.Every day the guards would come, and every day Katya would find herself facing another in a dank room, and every day they would come at her and every day she would defend herself and every evening she would be thrown back into her cell defeated, bruised, beaten, and alone.

Katya was beaten more than in body; she was beaten in soul as well. She had tried, she had done her utmost to survive and not fall into the same curse that befell so many others in the Stink, so not wanting to be just another broken one. But she was broken, now, chattel in someone's game, not even free to move at her own will. And certain to face death or worse at her first outing. The date seemed always far away, she heard her 'trainers' speak from the sidelines, until she gained some skill... but she knew that day would not remain in the future forever.

When the path is walled in, and the ball set in motion, few would take bets on anything but where the road leads. Yet, two amazing things would alter Katya's path.

Alone in her cell one night, crying as she nursed yet another new wound, too scared to eat knowing her fight date was now set, an almost fleeting thought crossed Katya's mind. It seemed so out of place that it caught her attention. "At least I've still got my clothes on, and am not lying on my back somewhere." Something shifted at that moment for Katya. Her voice, soft at first, spoke into the empty room (as it often did to stave off her loneliness). "Hold on... I can either sit here, wallowing in my situation, wishing it were better as I have been for so long, or placating myself with thoughts that it could be worse. I can feel sorry for myself. Or..." her voice grew a bit stronger, "I can not do that. This is where I am right now, and this is what is going on. And I can either shrink from it, or see what the hell I can do inside of it."

Several days later, she found herself standing on soft sand - sand made soft by the blood of many. Penned in by high walls, illuminated by many lamps, and surrounded by the raucous cries and jeers of many a drunk spectator. Across the expanse of the arena stood her opponent who, judging by his reception, was well known and thus a successful pit fighter. Her hands gripped the large unfamiliar weapon that pulled heavily on her arms. They wanted sport, and they wanted something interesting. An unknown girl with a strange weapon would provide that, a good warmup for the crowd this early in the evening.

Her eyes wandered across the faces of the patrons, leering with expectation, and then continued on to watch the server girls. A wry smile crossed her face, and she turned to look at her opponent. He simply glared back at her, a broad grin on his face. This was his fight, and he knew it. Katya's heart beat hard in her chest. What was she to do? She had to calm down.

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, and unexpectedly she was whisked away, to a place where she knew calm. It was bright out, and the breeze was pleasant as it poured through the open doors. She was dancing, laughing, as sweet music filled the air. She loved it all, she danced to it all, but she could make out and clung to the music played by her brother, sitting with the rest of the musicians near the back wall as she twirled and leaped and flowed with the other dancers through the hall. Oh how she had been free, oh how she had moved, oh how it was as if she could fly. And her mother was happy to indulge her...

A harsh ring of a gong snapped her eyes open. Her opponent, still grinning, was moving towards her, hefting his axe from side to side. Katya took a deep breath, and half closed her eyes. She willed her mind back to the reverie, opening her heart and her spirit to the dance, to the music, to her family.

And she flowed...

The cheers that rose were now hers whenever she entered the Arena floor. No longer did she sleep underground, no longer was the door barred behind her.

Her life was her own.

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The door clanged tightly behind Katya. As she secured the few coin she gained that night – even for her a walk through the slums could leave her battered and mugged – her thoughts drifted bitterly towards the double insult that was the smallness of her coin purse. For one, most of her coin came thrown down from the stands, despite what she knew her uniqueness was doing for Coliseum betting profits. For second, those rich pooftans could well afford to throw something more than their half-coppers.

As she walked the streets her mood was a bit fowl, no bettered by the familiar argument she knew would be awaiting her at Flatjack’s. She could little remember whether it was her turn to pay for her Mother’s annihilation, or whether her coin would go towards their food for the next week. It didn’t matter. She hated fighting with Rowf. She loved him dearly, still loved her mother dearly too, and just didn’t know what to do in the face of how things were, how to deal with a mother so readily wanting to glide into oblivion. The familiar arguments danced through her head, but she knew they were as empty right now as the haze that filled the smoke dens. They weren’t getting her anywhere.

She slid cautiously into Flatjack’s, acknowledging the rest of the gang who were present and still awake. She paced a bit as she waited for Rowf to return from his own profiteering activities.

There was no argument that night.

Rowf was in and off towards his palette with only a few words spoken. Something was not right. Katya was not a great reader of people like Rowf was, but as she watched him climb the rickety stairs, her eyes narrowed. He was injured. This she knew well. She followed him towards her own adjacent palette, but only sat on the edge, watching him. Silently. Something she never did before. “It’s all right, Kat,” Rowf said quietly at last, not looking her way. “It’s all right.”

She knew it wasn’t. The slums were a dangerous place, even to someone as crafty as her brother. That moment, sitting there, she knew she would not be heading back to the Coliseum tomorrow, or anytime soon. Rowf wouldn’t want it, she figured. She could hide, sneak along, as best she could. If he found out, or wanted to say something, so be it. But she would be his bodyguard.

At least for now.