Prak'kesh tossed his half-eaten batadactyl wing to a scraggly war beast lounging at the base of the Tower.

"Vanguard oughta do something about those strays," groused Tulnik, his ex-Corsair bodyguard. "They get big enough, it'll be our bones they're chewing."

Prak'kesh shrugged. "Vanguard don't give a hot damn what goes on down here. Besides, that's what I hire you for. Speaking of… look lively."

A trio of Hunters in all black approached, their capes flapping like a murder of blackbirds. Tulnik casually rested his hand on his Fatebringer.

The lead Threadrunner swaggered up to Prak'kesh. "We wanna bet on Hunters to win the Games."

"You got the Glim for it, killer?" Prak'kesh sucked at the batadactyl meat stuck between his teeth. "The Superblack look ain't exactly screaming 'high roller.'"

"We got something even better." The Hunter pulled aside his cape to reveal a Praxic Blade slung from his hip.

Prak'kesh let out a low whistle. "Praxics know you're stealing their scraps?"

"Why? You scared?" the Hunter sneered. "They're not gonna be around long enough to find out." He looked up at the Tower with contempt. "Neither is the Vanguard."

"Oh yeah?" Prak'kesh said mildly. "I don't really deal in religious paraphernalia. Pawn it off and come back with some real Glim. Then we'll see about your bet."

The Hunters stalked away begrudgingly. "You might wanna think about whose side you're on," the Threadrunner called over his shoulder. "Don't wanna be under this Tower when it falls, do ya?"