Under the stairwell, half wanting to be noticed, half willing to slice the throat of any voice that spoke, the rogue sat. Triumvirates of marrow, skin, and leather: tanned, shellacked protection covered him from his white, matted hair to his thorny boots. Gritty dirt and dried blood danced on his poisonous blades. No question of his lethal nature. Sickened by years of marrying edges with poison. Rogues don’t live long lives. No quiet death in his sleep, no telling of boring stories of the kidneys kicked or the backs stabbed to restless grandchildren. But he didn’t want to die alone.