This story contains story elements from Peaky Blinders and the Witcher. I don't own those things.
A woman, concealed in a cloak, jogs with an escort through a building and down an alley. Folk chatter as they mill about the alley. Perspiration drips down the bald man's head as he frantically escorts the woman to the meeting place.
A handsome man mounted on a black horse slowly advances down a back alley, filled with women and muck. The women and children hide as they hear the clopping of the horse approaching. The horseman's countenance serious and deliberate. The bald man and cloaked woman rush to meet the horseman.
"Sir, this is her," says the poor bald man, voice uneven. No doubt, he was a member of the Blindeyes. The woman removes her hood, revealing her delicate face and fiery hair.
"The girl who brews potions?" asks the horseman, his voice low and steady. The bald man nods. The horseman had an ace of spades tucked into his drab dublet, signifying his membership in the Cutups gang. The handsome Cutup leans forward, handing the bald man a sack of coin. Receiving a nod from her chauffeur, the 'witch' reaches into a pouch and pulls out a handful of red dust. She whispers into her palm before blowing the dust into the horse's face. The black steed nods his head to escape the dust.
"They're doing a magic spell. To make it win a race," a dirt covered boy whispers to another hiding behind a crate. The witch and her chauffeur sprint back from whence they came.
"The horse's name is Black Raider. Vegelbud Memorial Race. You ladies have a bet yourselves, but don't tell anyone else," the Cutup announces to the ladies hiding, their doors ajar. The hanging laundry billows in the the women all come out to gossip, while the Cutup slips from their view.
The Cutup's horse trots through the hustle and bustle of Novigrad as they head to his stable. The handsome gangster tips a beggar and continues on his way. A guard tips his head as he passes by.
Once the Cutup houses the horse, he heads back to The Bits. He receives nods and short greetings from all manner of beings as he passes through the streets. The folk of the district respect the Cutups who provide them protection. He enters the door of a residence that contains a betting shop within its depths.
Upon entry he smells the usual aroma of tobacco. Through the entry, he sees his little brother who tries to hide something. With the air so pungent in the small room, he assumes the boy is smoking a pipe. "Frans?"
"Cyprian's mad as hell," the young lad's voice sounding too cute for the harsh word.
The older brother makes his way around the dining tables. He reaches for the pipe and knocks the younger on the noggin. "What does a boy of ten know about hell? Eh?"
"I've another year soon," the boy retorts. The older brother smiles at him, then stands to exit. A plush rug covers the floor, beneath it the hatch to the cellar. The Cutup swings the hatch open, announcing his presence. The cellar is filled with toiling men, ale, smoke, parchments flying, and heaps of coin. Tables consumed most of the space within the cellar.
"Tomyn! Tomyn! Tomyn, look at the book. Just look," yet another brother holds up the book excitedly. "All on Black Raider," he says.
"Tomyn!" His older brother shouts for his attention with a gruff voice. Standing at the entry to his den, with an awful expression, was Cyprian.
"Good work, Jonas," Tomyn says to his younger brother with a pat on the shoulder.
"Tomyn!" Shouts Cyprian again. "Get in here. Now." Tomyn walks into the cramped den, remains standing and leans against the wall. Cyprian takes his seat, slouching back and pours some Redanian herbal, looking solemn. "Now, you were seen doin' the witch trick down an alley."
"Times are hard," Tomyn replies. "People need a reason to lay a bet," giving Cyprian further explanation.
"There was a Blindeye," he says with a swig of his drink.
"The washerwomen say she's a witch. It helps them believe," Tomyn insists in a calm, even tone.
"We don't mess with Blindeyes," Cyprian pounds the table and puffs his pipe.
"Look at the book," Tomyn says, in attempts to relieve Cyprian.
"Blindeyes have cutters of their own," says Cyprian still solemn. Still not relieved.
"We agreed, Cyprian," says Tomyn, voice low and steady. "I'm taking charge of drummin' up their coin."
"What if Black Raider wins, Tomyn?" Cyprian says with worry, rubbing his palms. "You fixing races now? Do you have permission from Bartholome Kazimir to be fixing races? Hmm? And what's got into you? You think we can take on the Blindeyes and Barty Kazimir? Barty's got a bloody army!"
"I think, Cyprian. That's what I do." Tomyn leans in. "I think. So that you don't have to," Tomyn dismisses and walks out.
"There's news from Oxenfurt! I'm calling on the family at dusk, I want all of us there! You hear me?! There's trouble brewin'!" Cyprian shouts like a madman as Tomyn strides out of the betting shop.
A clean fashioned man rides a ship. As he sits, he looks over his orders from Sigismund Dijkstra and the profiles of his list of suspects. The first, Cyprian Wiley. A lean, rugged man stares at him in the drawing. The description notes his leadership of the Cutups gang. Previously, he was in the Northern War and fought in the Battle at Sodden Hill.
Next, Tomyn Wiley. Cyprian's right hand man and brother. Built lean too, his face better looking, with a piercing gaze. Fought in the Battle at Sodden Hill the same as many men their age. Received special recognition from the King for his gallantry.
A third man in his stack was Fredrik Thorne. A slim man with dark hair and eyes. He seems to be affiliated with Nilfgaardian spies and Scoia'tael. Fought at the same battle with the first two men.
The soon to be captain of the guard stores the files away, closes his eyes and commits the men to memory.
Fredrik, activist for nonhumans, stands on the top of a crate as he speaks out to the workers of the warehouse. "All right, shut up now. Shut up. Fellas, we're here today to take a vote on strike action. Yes! But before we have a show of hands for that, let's have a show of hands from all those who fought in the war. All those who stood side by side with your comrades, and watched your comrades fall. Raise your hands. The blood shed on Sodden Hill. The sweat of your brows. Who reaps the rewards? Is it you?"
"No, no. No!" The group of dirty workers give in response as they stand together in the corner by the door.
"Is it your wives?" Fredrik asks with a look of persuasion.
"No, no. No, no," the workers answer.
"Well, who then? Do they stand among us?"
"NO. None."
"Or do they sit at home, comfortable, with a full belly? While you scrape to find enough to put shoes on your children's feet! And what is the reward they offer you for your sacrifices made? A ploughin' cut in your wages! That is your reward! Raise a hand, all those who want to strike!" Fredrik shouts, delivering his call to action.
"Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!" Call the workers.
Tomyn walks down the streets of The Bits and enters the Nowhere Inn. The inn hosts a hub of men after their days work, drinking before going home to their wives. The inhabitants give him a glance as he pays for a drink.
Fredrik, who had been sitting by the wall, leaves his group of fellow workers to speak to Tomyn at the bar. Tomyn puffs his pipe nonchalantly acknowledging his buddy Fredrik's presence.
"On the house, Mr. Wiley," offers the innkeeper to Tomyn as he sits at the bar, setting coin on the table.
Fredrik asks for a refill of ale and pays with Tomyn's coin, "I'll take a mild."
"Right," says the innkeeper.
"Cheers, Tomyn. Good health to you. Crown of a prince," Fredrik comments, referring to Tomyn's flat cap. "Soon to be king, I'd bet."
"You don't bet," replies Tomyn.
"No, but these past few days I've been speculating," Fredrik prods.
"About what?" Tomyn asks, lifting his head, daring him to speak.
"One of my work comrades has a sister. Works in the post-room at the warehouse. She says, over the past week, they've had correspondence comin' up from Vizima. From Sigismund Dijkstra himself." He leans in close to Tomyn, and whispers "Somethin' about a robbery... a robbery of national significance, it said. She found a list of names left on the table... and on that list was your name and my name together. What kind of a list would have the name of an order protester and a bookmaker side by side?"
"Perhaps it's a list of men who give false hope to the poor. The only difference between you and me, Freddie, is that, sometimes... my horses stand a chance of winning."
"You know, there are days - when I hear about the cuttings and beatings - that I really wish I'd let you take that arrow in Sodden," Fredrik grumbles.
"Believe me, there are nights I wish you had," Tomyn admits sadly.
A sudden bashing in of the establishment door causes a commotion of men leaping from their seats.
"Hey!"
"They're gonna kill me!" Yells a tall and strong man, seeming to be out of his mind as Fredrik and Tomyn hold him still.
"On three! One, two, three, go!" Fredrik yells to Tomyn. The two wrestle the man to the floor.
"Breathe, Dane. Breathe!" Fredrik urges Dane to calm himself.
"They're gonna kill me! They're gonna kill me! They're gonna kill me!" Dane yells more as his face is pressed against the floor.
"Dane! Dane, Dane, you're home. We're all home in Novigrad. You're not in Sodden. You're not a deadman, Dane, you're alive. Eh? You're a person, Dane. You're all right. You're all right. You're all right." The voice of his good friend Tomyn said.
"Up, UP!" Says Fredrik.
"It's all right. It's all right," says Tomyn reassuring his friend caught up in his war trauma.
"Oh, hell. Did I do it again?" Dane asks, now lucid.
"You did it again, Dane. You gotta stop doing this, man," Tomyn warns Dane. "He's all right," Tomyn says now to the crowd.
"Oh fuck, Mr. Wiley, I'm sorry," pleads the man.
"It's all right. You go home to your woman now, Dane," says Tomyn.
"Yeah," Dane whispers with sorrow.
"And get all that magic and mud out of your head, eh?" Tomyn tries to lift his spirits.
"Yes, Mr. Wiley. I'm sorry," Dane says.
"Go on," Tomyn urges Dane to leave. Fredrik stares at Tomyn, brows furrowed.
The innkeeper turns to Tomyn, now upset that his establishment has been disrupted. "Mr. Wiley, you have to do something about him," he says short.
"Damn right, Horace. You pay the Cutups a lot of coin for protection," Fredrik says. He turns to Tomyn. "You're the law around here now, Tomyn, aren't you? Maybe you should strike Deadman Dane's head in like they do with cattle. Maybe you'll have to strike in my head someday, too."
"Bring the bill to the Cutups. We'll take care of it." Tomyn says, calmly leaving the Nowhere Inn.
Jonas freezes the minute he steps out of an alley onto the street. A matronly woman wields a crossbow at Jonas' head. "Look at the bow," she says, "Recognise it?" Her deep dark eyes giving Jonas a stern warning.
"Mmhm," he mumbles. She shoves him with the crossbow and her fist. "Fuck!"
"Get up off your arse, you mumping pig," she scolds.
"Auntie Elv, what the fuck did you do that for?"
"Frans was playing with this today. It was loaded. Nearly pierced Aena's tit. He said he found it on the sideboard of the betting shop. With an arrow in it."
"I... I must have been drunk," he admits defeated.
"When are you not drunk?"
"Look, Auntie Elva, I'm sorry. I'm... I'm sorry."
"We'll keep this between ourselves if you swear not to leave weapons lying around. Look, I know having four kids without a woman is hard, but my boot's harder. Now come on, we're late."
"Right!" He says, following Elva's lead.
This is all I have so far. Let me know if it's worth continuing. This story is a heavy riff off of Peaky Blinders, but I wanted to integrate it with Whoreson Junior in Novigrad.