Chapter 1: Bad Moons Rising

Nighttime.

You walk the lonely shrouded avenues of Malifaux City on the way to your destination. The only sounds are the rustle of your equipment and your footsteps on the cobblestones. There is a chill in the air, and the evening breeze brings with it the usual smells of the city: burning coal, industrial effluent, and human waste. On either side of you, the surrounding buildings loom like featureless black spires jutting out of the gloom. And everywhere it's dark.

Although gas lamps dot most of Malifaux's thoroughfaires, their soft glow is never quite enough to drive away the night. Not really. Even with every street lamp lit, the city always seems cloaked in an abundance of shadows, as though the darkness actively resists being forced away. Tonight, however, is a rare treat as both of Malifaux's twin moons - Ilios and Delios - are full. They hang in the alien sky like luminous orbs, and their pale light helps make the nighttime a little less oppressive.

A knee-deep mist, thick as pea soup, has rolled its way through the city on this evening. The sickly gray fog hugs the ground closely and offers faint notes of formaldehyde that tickle your nostrils. You guess that it's one-part water vapor and three-parts smog from the factory-laden Industrial Zone. You try your best not to breathe it in. The mist swirls lazily in your wake as you trudge through it.

You pass a small group of wastrels lounging together on the front steps of a building. They smoke their rolled tobacco and silently watch for easy prey to drag into an alleyway. Even worse, they've been hitting the moonshine. Some of them eyeball you, poised to make a move when you aren't looking, but ultimately think better of it when they spy the weapons you're carrying. Casual violence is part of life in the Slums, but one learns to forgive it. For every petty criminal who robs a stranger out of boredom or maliciousness, there are three who do it to be able to eat. Abject poverty brings a desperation that many will never understand.

You glimpse other sights on your walk, but nothing out of the ordinary. A man's disheveled body laying unnaturally still along the side of the street. It's hard to say whether he's dead or just passed out. A pack of stray dogs fighting a gang of feral street kids over scraps of offal. A prostitute and her client rutting loudly in the privacy of a back alley.

Just another lovely evening in Malifaux.


As you continue your long, quiet trek, you eventually reach an intersection of two city streets. Here, the narrow streets widen, and the looming buildings give way to a comfortable amount of open space. The sidewalks are more prominent, and the concentration of street lamps provides respectable illumination. Most notably, however, is the twenty-foot high barrier that bisects the intersection from east to west. The barrier is comprised of a mishmash of materials - metal sheets, concrete, and masonry - which conveys the sense that it was constructed rather quickly. The patchwork wall continues in either direction as far as you can see. Ahead of you at the center of the intersection, you note that a clockwork gate is built into the barrier. You've reached the appointed meeting place: the edge of the Quarantine Zone.

"Quarantine Zone" refers to those parts of Malifaux City that the Guild of Mercantilers has yet to reclaim. These are areas that the Guild has determined are too dangerous for human habitation. The official position of the municipal government is that the Quarantine Zone is infested with all manner of unsavory elements, including criminals, disease carriers, Resurrectionists, and even the nightmarish Neverborn. Rather than expend tremendous resources and manpower to clear these neighborhoods, the Guild erected a barrier to cut them off from the remainder of the city; to keep the things living in these areas contained. By Guild decree, access to the Quarantine Zone is prohibited to all but authorized individuals, and those caught attempting to enter the zone are shot on sight.

Clearly, the Guild has QZ-related work to be done. It recently put out a call for freelancers with certain skills. Perhaps you heard the opportunity advertised over an aethervox broadcast, or maybe you learned about it through a contact. Whatever the case, you don't know much about the job. The details have been scant, so far. All you know is that the Guild is seeking those with a talent for violence, and it's willing to pay handsomely. For years there have been rumors floating around the Slums, vague rumors, about a mysterious work assignment that the Guild annually outsources to contractors. Not much is known about the assignment since most of its participants supposedly never come back.

Already waiting at the intersection are a couple dozen individuals who, presumably like yourself, are here to accept the Guild's offer of employment. It's a motley group of people from various parts of the city. Mercenaries, cutthroats, and rogues, one and all. Some of the faces look familiar; you recognize them due to frequenting some of the same establishments. Others are new to you. Not surprisingly, everyone is armed with one or more weapons. Also garrisoned at the intersection are several squads of Guild Guardsmen. Dressed in their double-breasted red uniforms with ram's head arm bands, the Guardsmen watch the gathered freelancers with leers of suspicion, rifles out and ready in case of trouble. Several Guards are posted next to the gate into the QZ, and two others are positioned on a rampart at the top of the barrier.

Aside from a few murmurs of conversation, everyone is waiting quietly. A few individuals size you up as you arrive. For some, it's a matter of curiosity. For others, it's about checking out the competition.

Gremlins are an uncommon sight this far into Malifaux City. When Petite Merde arrives, many of the gathered humans watch him with a mixture of surprise and disdain. A few of the freelancers seem amused and chuckle aloud. Several guardsmen narrow their eyes at the little green creature but otherwise don't react.

Midnight, the appointed hour for arrival, is fast approaching.

People continue to wander in from various parts of the city. Stragglers mostly. They show up at the intersection one by one or occasionally in pairs. Some arrive from the same direction you did, while others enter from separate side streets. The small crowd of freelancers grows bit by bit, until there are roughly thirty in all.

They are indeed an eclectic group. That much is undeniable. Their assorted clothes and weapons hint at a diversity of cultures and nationalities. In looking for perspective hires, the Guild appears to have cast a wide net. Other than Petite Merde and Hugo, however, everyone who has shown up is human.

If the gathered freelancers can be said to have one thing in common, it's perhaps that they all seem to be fairly hard-bitten sons-of-bitches. Many have their violent histories written on their bodies in the form of scars, prison tattoos, or pneumatic augments. A few have no obvious indicators of toughness other than their detached manner or the icy look in their eyes. A good chunk of these men and women are clearly career mercenaries who get paid to fight for a living. They are perhaps the most relaxed of the bunch. Others are likely gang members and street thugs looking to show off or make some quick scrip. The remainder are probably a mix of different types: the desperate, the insane, and the thrill seekers.

Most of the individuals are waiting quietly by themselves and taking the opportunity to prepare weapons, inventory equipment, or enjoy a drink or smoke. The rest have congregated into small groups and are conversing in hushed tones. Looking around the intersection, several people stand out as memorable. A giant of a man, sporting a Cossack chokha and an oversized pneumatic arm, rests his chainsaw on his shoulder and laughs in response to an unheard jest. Another man, dressed in loose-fitting Chinese hanfu, sits cross-legged on the sidewalk and diligently oils his nine ring broadsword. A woman clad in a sombrero and Dia De Los Muertos face paint speaks in Spanish to a clockwork falcon perched on her forearm. A lanky stranger wearing a barber's smock lazily twirls a shaving razor in his hand with unnerving dexterity. A posh-looking gentleman in an expensive safari outfit strokes his fine moustache as his manservant loads shells into the breech of a massive elephant gun.