The Viper's warehouse felt different upon his return. The air, usually thick with the bravado and sweat of men who believed themselves predators, was now laced with a new, sharp scent: Caution. It was in the way the men stood, a little too still. In the way their eyes flickered towards the main entrance at any sound from the street. The Church's slow, methodical pressure was a vise everyone could feel, even if they didn't know its source.
Lutz moved through this tense atmosphere with a detached focus, giving Karl a curt, respectful nod as he passed. The Pyromaniac acknowledged him with a slight, almost imperceptible tilt of his chin. The dynamic had shifted since the ship. The nod was no longer from a superior to a subordinate, but something closer to an exchange between wary equals. Lutz stored his newly acquired, stranger purchases—the ashes, the blood and the packaging paper, in the locked chest in his room. They were for later. But the leather, the buckles, the thread—these were for now.
He didn't bother cleaning up. The grime from the Gallowsmarket and the faint grey film of forge ash on his hands were a badge of purpose. He went directly to the workshop, a corner of the warehouse filled with the scent of oil, metal, and old wood. His previous attempts at the harness, made from scrap leather and salvaged bits, lay on the bench like discarded snake skins. They had served their purpose, teaching him the geometry of the thing, the stress points, the balance. Now, he pushed them aside. It was time for the real thing.
He unrolled the oil-tanned harness leather. It was stiff, thick, and had a dense, serious weight to it. This wasn't for show; it was for survival. He laid out his tools: sharp awls, heavy needles, a mallet, the spool of waxed thread. He started with the foundation, the belt. It needed to be wide, to distribute the weight of his arsenal, and rigid, to prevent sagging. He measured his waist, added room for the clothes he'd wear beneath, and then began to cut. The sound of the sharp knife slicing through the tough leather was a clean, decisive sound in the anxious quiet of the warehouse.
He was so engrossed in marking the placement for the first set of D-rings that he didn't hear the approach until a voice, young and unnervingly cheerful, cut through his concentration.
"Hey, what's up man?"
Lutz looked up, his hand not leaving the awl. A young viper stood there, lanky and loose-limbed, with a mop of unruly brown hair and a grin that seemed too wide for the room. Lutz recognized him vaguely—a recent addition, eager and unblooded. The name, he recalled, was Peter.
"I heard what you did on the Ocean Snake," Peter continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that was still too loud. "That was badass, man. Taking out that singing guy? And then... well, we've been told not to talk about that part, haha!" He chuckled, a nervous, admiring sound. "You even saved Karl's ass. Seriously, man, that's legendary."
Lutz regarded him for a moment, his gray-blue eyes giving nothing away. This kind of open, almost childish admiration was a foreign currency here. In the Vipers, respect was usually shown through silent acknowledgment or shared violence, not gushing praise.
"It was a job," Lutz said, his voice flat. He turned back to his work, driving the awl through the leather to punch a clean hole. The thunk was punctuation.
"Right, right, a job," Peter said, undeterred. He leaned against a workbench, watching Lutz's hands. "Still. You're like, what, a year older than me? And you're already doing that stuff. I'm just on collections with Gerhart. It's boring. He just makes me stand there and look mean."
Lutz began threading the heavy needle. "Looking mean is most of the job."
"Yeah, but it's not... that," Peter said, gesturing vaguely as if encompassing the entire epic of the sea battle. "So, what're you making? A new belt? Looks tough."
"It's a full harness," Lutz said, the words short. But as he began the slow, rhythmic process of saddle-stitching the belt's core, a part of his mind, cold and analytical, detached itself from the manual labor. This dude, Peter... he was a fool. Naive. Desperate for validation. But he was also a pair of eyes and ears. He moved around the warehouse with an invisibility that Lutz, as a proven killer, had lost. He heard the gossip, the complaints, the fears of the lower-level members.
An idea, cold and precise, began to form. This fool seems to suck up to me. I could use him.
He changed his tone, not to friendly, but to something marginally more open. A mentor's gruffness. "It's not just a belt. It's a system. Everything has its place. A place for the knife," he said, tapping a spot on his hip. "A place for the gun. For the tools. When things go wrong, you don't have time to think. Your hands just need to know where to go."
Peter's eyes widened, captivated. "Wow. That's... that's really smart man."
Lutz gave a noncommittal grunt, pulling the thread tight. "It's common sense. Most people are too stupid to use it." He let the insult hang, knowing it would only bind Peter tighter. "Gerhart teaching you anything useful? Or just how to scowl?"
"He showed me how to break a wrist if a shopkeeper gets grabby," Peter said, puffing his chest out slightly.
"Good. That's a start." Lutz paused his stitching and looked at Peter directly. "But the real work isn't always about breaking things. It's about knowing things. Who's talking to who. Who's nervous. Who's spending more than they should."
Peter leaned in, his voice dropping to a genuine whisper now. "You mean... like spying?"
"I mean keeping your eyes open," Lutz corrected, his tone implying that only an idiot wouldn't understand the difference. "The Baron and Karl, they have the big picture. But sometimes, the little details... they slip through the cracks. And those details can get you killed. Or they can save your life, you know, that's what got me promoted when i was starting, now I am busy with more important things, but if you got a whiff of anything useful, i can put in a good word for you to the Baron"
He let that sink in, watching the young man's face as he processed the idea of being a vital, if minor, intelligence asset.
"Hey," Peter said, his expression turning earnest. "If I hear anything... you know, anything weird or important... I'll let you know. For sure."
Lutz nodded slowly, as if bestowing a great responsibility. "Do that. Don't make a show of it. Just listen." He turned back to his harness. "Now, I need to focus. This stitching has to be perfect. A single weak point, and the whole system fails."
"Right. Of course. I'll, uh, I'll leave you to it," Peter said, practically bowing as he backed away. "Thanks, Lutz. Seriously."
Lutz didn't reply. He listened to the boy's retreating footsteps, a new piece now in play on his internal board. Peter was a tool, a canary in the coal mine of the Viper's crumbling morale.
As he pulled the waxed thread through the tough leather, each sturdy stitch was a promise. A promise of order in the coming chaos. A promise that when the Church and the Bishop finally descended, he, Lutz, would not be fumbling for a weapon in the dark. He would be a fully integrated system of violence and theft, and he would have a pair of young, foolish eyes watching his back, right up until the moment he decided he needed a shield more than he needed a spy. The harness was taking shape, and so was his plan.
The final stitch on the harness's belt core was pulled tight, the waxed thread biting deep into the oil-tanned leather. Lutz held the assembly up. It was a skeleton—a wide, rigid belt and a Y-shaped structure that crossed his back and shoulders. It was still naked, missing its pouches, sheaths, and holsters, but the foundation was there. It was solid. Unyielding. It felt less like a piece of gear and more like an exoskeleton, a promise of order and readiness. He packed it away carefully in his room, the raw leather smelling of potential and violence.
The grime of the Gallowsmarket and the workshop felt like a second skin, a film of the city's corruption. He scrubbed it away in the warehouse's bathroom, the water turning grey as it swirled down the drain. The act was as much practical as it was symbolic. He was washing off the day's preparations, cleansing himself for the night's work. He changed into clean, decent clothes—the uniform of an unremarkable man running an evening errand.
Dusk had settled fully by the time he was ready, the gas lamps casting long, dancing shadows. He laid out his tools on the small table in his room: the brown packaging paper, the twine, a small, crudely made wooden crate he'd salvaged, the vial of animal blood, and the scrap of cloth from an Ocean Snake's Bane crew uniform—a trophy taken by another Viper and casually discarded, now about to become a centerpiece of deception.
His movements were methodical, almost ritualistic. He took a piece of scrap metal and, with a file and a sharp awl, painstakingly carved the Viper's symbol: a coiled serpent. It was crude, the work of minutes, not a craftsman. It was perfect.
He placed the metal token on the scrap of uniform cloth. Then, he uncorked the vial of blood. The smell, coppery and thick, filled the small room. He didn't pour it; he dipped his fingers in and carefully smeared the dark, congealing liquid over the token and the cloth, making it look as if it had been hastily wiped on a bloody garment. The effect was immediate and visceral. This was no longer a prop; it was a piece of evidence from a violent world.
He placed the bloodied bundle inside the small crate. The act felt significant, like loading a gun. He closed the lid, then took the brown paper and twine. His wrapping was neat, anonymous, utterly devoid of personality. No note. No return address. The message was in the contents alone: a Viper's token, wrapped in the blood of their enemies. Let the Church draw its own conclusions.
On a separate slip of paper, he wrote a single line in a blocky, uneducated hand: Church Trade Compliance Office, Chevalier District, Indaw Harbor.
Then, Lutz made his way towards his final destination of the day.
The "mail place" was a small, brightly lit office near the merchant quarter, run by the Continental Post. It was a place of order and bureaucracy, a world away from the Gallowsmarket. Lutz entered, the bell on the door jingling cheerfully. The clerk behind the counter was a bored-looking young man.
"I need to send this parcel," Lutz said, his voice neutral, placing the wrapped box on the counter.
The clerk picked it up, gauging the weight. "Anything fragile, liquid, or perishable?"
"No."
The clerk nodded, scribbled a tag, and affixed it with the address Lutz provided. "That'll be three pfenninge."
Lutz paid with coppers, his movements casual. The transaction took less than a minute. He was just another faceless customer sending a package. He turned and left, the bell jingling his exit. The poison pill was now in the postal system, winding its way inexorably towards the heart of the Church's bureaucratic machine.
Outside, the night had fully taken hold. The successful delivery did not bring relief, only a heightened state of alertness. The act was done. There was no taking it back. Now, he had to vanish.
He didn't head straight back to the Salt-Weep. He walked towards the busier market streets, then ducked into a crowded tavern, using the press of bodies to break his trail. In the foul-smelling lavatory, he shed his "errand-runner" clothes, stuffing them into his bag. He emerged as the lanky laborer with the black wig and duffel coat, his posture slouching, his gait becoming a shambling stroll.
On the way, he bought some fried fish sticks and ate on the way.
He took a circuitous route home, avoiding main thoroughfares, sticking to alleys and side streets where the Church's presence was thinner. His senses were stretched taut, every shadow a potential threat, every footfall behind him a reason to alter his course. He crossed the invisible border into the Salt-Weep district, the air changing, becoming heavier with the smells of poverty and industry.
Finally, he slipped back into the warehouse. The familiar sounds and smells of the viper's nest were almost a comfort. He moved to his room, bolting the door behind him. He unpacked his bag, hanging the disguises, storing the gear. The harness skeleton lay on his bed, a silent testament to the future.
He had done it. Four separate strands of misinformation, delivered through four different channels: a forged document, a drunken rumor, a cryptic letter and a bloody, anonymous package. The web was woven. The Church now had a paper trail, a witness account, and physical evidence, all pointing a damning finger at the Vipers and the artifact in the Baron's possession, the Dream-eating rat's heart.
He sat on the edge of his bed, the day's fatigue finally settling into his bones. But beneath the tiredness was a cold, humming certainty. The trap was set. The pieces were in motion. All that was left was to wait, to continue building his harness, and to ready himself for the storm he had just set in motion. He had mailed a declaration of war, and signed it with another man's blood.