The city of Tonder greeted us with cold and the smell of tanned leather. We walked through the streets, looking over our shoulders: to the townsfolk, we looked like a gang that had robbed a zoo and a dumpster simultaneously.

  A new face had appeared in our ranks. Another “speed?hire” acquisition from a tavern (cost: 280 crowns), where the smell of cheap swill attracts appropriate talent. There, the Captain had obligated Gunther to order a team dinner with beer. Grinding his teeth, the Accountant allocated a team?building budget of 50 crowns.

  Background: Anatomist History: Disgraced and expelled from the University. Official reason: “Unethical experiments on living matter.” Unofficial reason: systematic embezzlement of organ preservation alcohol for “internal disinfection.” Characteristics: Carries a set of terrifying knives. Hands only shake when they aren’t holding a glass or a scalpel. Status: Seeking ethanol and science

  We found the sign: “Taxidermist: Stuffed Beasts, Hides, and Eternity.”

  Inside, it smelled of chemicals, formalin, and frozen time. The owner, a withered old man with fingers like hooks, met us without a smile.

  “Brought raw materials?” he asked, looking at the Direwolf pelts Jem was dragging and the sack of teeth Tobias was carrying.

  Gunther stepped forward, opening his ledger.

  “We brought Assets. Three Direwolf pelts. Ghoul teeth. We are ready to invest in an equipment upgrade. We need a Cloak of Intimidation and a Talisman.”

  The old man named the price.

  “The cloak — labor is 300. The talisman — 250. Total 550 crowns. Plus Guild tax.”

  Gunther paled.

  “We have 320 crowns. That is our entire authorized capital.”

  “Then go catch rats,” the Taxidermist yawned, losing interest. “Art costs money. And chemistry is expensive these days.”

  Vain stepped out from behind Dieter’s shadow. He was twirling a thin, razor?sharp lancet in his fingers.

  “You are short on hands, master,” the Anatomist said quietly. His voice rustled like dry skin. “I can see by the incisions on that stuffed bear. Hand trembling? Arthritis? Or did you overdo the tincture yesterday?”

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  The Taxidermist tensed.

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I will help. I will do all the dirty work: fleshing, bone sanding, stitching tendons. I know anatomy better than you know prayers. I work for food (which we don’t have) and… let’s say, access to your stocks of technical alcohol. And a 60% discount for my company.”

  The Taxidermist looked into Vain’s eyes. In those eyes, he saw such an abyss of professional alcoholism and madness that even he felt uneasy.

  “Fine,” the old man nodded. “Get to the cutting table. But if you drink too much or ruin the hide — I’ll turn you into a lampshade.”

  The process began.

  Jem sat on the counter, swinging his legs and watching Vain caress dead flesh with a scalpel. Blood and chemistry mixed into a strange cocktail.

  “Look how happy he is,” the Jester commented. “You found his calling, Gunther. He’s not a healer. He is a Couturier of Death. A designer of clothes made from those who recently breathed. Haute Couture of Death.”

  Four hours later, “The Bums” were transformed.

  Dieter came out first.

  Over his pathetic shirt and patched mail now hung a heavy pelt smelling of beast. A wolf’s head with empty eye sockets snarled from his shoulder.

  “Ooh!” Jem drawled, pinching his nose. “Style: ‘Alpha Male from the Dumpster.’ Enemies will run not from fear, but from the smell of wet dog.”

  “They will run from Terror,” Gunther corrected, checking his handbook. “Cloak effect: ?5 to opponent’s Resolve in melee. Dieter is now a walking debuff. He just stands there, and the enemy triggers a Panic Check.”

  Tobias approached second.

  Vain, wiping his hands with a rag (and smelling suspiciously of fresh spirits), handed him a necklace. Yellow, polished Ghoul fangs hung on a rough cord.

  “This is worth 250 crowns by list price,” Gunther reminded him. “Put it on.”

  “Why?” Tobias touched the teeth warily. “These are… corpse parts.”

  “This is a Nachzehrer Talisman. It gives +4 to Resolve. Now you will be less afraid.”

  “I’m still afraid.”

  “Naturally. But now you have property worth your own ransom hanging around your neck. Lose it — and I write you off as scrap.”

  We left the shop.

  Remaining funds: 20 crowns. We were destitute, but we were “on trend.”

  “Well?” asked Jem, looking over the transformed squad. “Now we look like real Northern Raiders. Just very poor ones. Where do we spend the last 20 coins? On booze?”

  “The budget is exhausted,” Gunther stated. “We need working capital. 2000 crowns.”

  “No,” the Captain shook his head. He looked at Dieter?the?Wolf and Tobias?the?Toothy. There was something new in their eyes. Not courage, no. But pride in their loot.

  “They don’t need money right now. They need Status. Our next goal is a Banner.”

  “A Banner?” the Sergeant asked.

  “Exactly. We are no longer a band of vagrants. We are a PMC.”

  “Pee?Em?See?” Knut pronounced slowly. “What kind of beast is that?”

  “Private Military Company,” Gunther deciphered with pleasure. “Sounds respectable. It implies contractual obligations, tax breaks, and the right to kill people for money on legal grounds.”

  Jem whistled.

  “PMC ‘The Bums’. Sounds like the name of the most honest corporation in the world. I suggest drawing an empty plate on the banner.”

  The squad moved toward the city exit. The wind ruffled the wolf fur on Dieter’s shoulders. Passersby shied away.

  We were ready to scare enemies with our appearance. And with our new corporate status.