there he comes, hobbling in that odd way that granted him the satirical nickname of 'the crane', dressed in fineries more fit for a whore than an official representative.
and yet no one budge nor yells out their revulsion.
people whisper, people scold in the shade of one's ear, spit in his trail but never act.
for he, who entered their world as a gift, a slave to one's twisted leisure, hoisted himself through his wits and determination up to a more comfortable position, at the top of an immense fortune overshading theirs.
and where money lays, power to.
Sag'curio Hera, the ultra-wealthy sergal who despite his position never forgot where he came from. the gutter, where unwanted trash is discarded and where he finds his most trusted allies.
'careful who you pay to have me killed for money's power has its limits. and if that stranger, that common throat-cutter turns against you at the mention of my name, don't think it is because i paid him. it is because that stranger's wife or husband is fed and clothed by my me, because their children are granted a chance at not ending down the same path as their parents through the best of educations by me and finally because that stranger, that slaughterer found in the shadows, that desperate folk killing to gather a few credits... is probably my close friend.'