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The alley narrows until the crooked walls seem to lean over you, blocking out the last dirty strip of sky.

Ahead, a large figure steps out from behind a stack of broken crates. He is broad, red-faced, and carrying a cudgel that looks as though it began life as part of a respectable table.

He spits into the gutter and grins.

"Name's Geoff," he says. "And this is my alley."

You place one hand on your sword hilt. Geoff notices and raises his cudgel.

There is, regrettably, no room for polite negotiation.