Anwen kissed her daughter Isabel goodnight and headed out into the maze of streets that made up the machinist’s district of Port Quinby. The evening’s work would earn her enough silver to pay off the last of her debt to Lord Harle, and start rebuilding her life. She blended with the crowds as she crossed the street and entered the bar district, gas lights painting the wet cobbles in a riot of colors.

She pushed her way into the The North Star, mounted the curved walnut and brass staircase, and made her way past drunkards and harlots to the third floor. Commodore Griswal Dunn, hero (or butcher, depending on who you asked) of the Battle of Fort Sutton, entertained his entourage at a table overlooking the water which glittered in the moonlight. Anwen feigned drunkenness as she passed behind him, his pair of burly guards wary, hands on their pistols and sabres.

Anwen laughed obnoxiously and stumbled to the floor at their feet, forcing them to lift her roughly up, directly behind the commodore. Still in their arms, she laughed and ranted as she pulled her revolver and shot the Commodore in the back of his head, blood and brains spraying out over his screaming guests.

Anwen jerked free of the stunned guards and leapt across the table, slipped in gore and whiskey, and jumped gracelessly out of the shattered window. She smiled as she fell, knowing that no matter what happened to her, Isabel would be safe: her patron would see to that.