The Chain City could be accessed at four points across Arc, the Dells, large stone spiralling steps that descended into the darkness. Each of the four Dells was found in a former market square across the city, now a marshalling ground for convicted thieves and common criminals who could be found in large numbers across the city and were often sat for days, waiting for their journey below to commence. Deo had little recollection of having been at one of the Dells, but by all accounts he had sat for the best part of eleven hours shivering in the rain before being dragged to the network of prisons beneath the city. The first tier of incarceration, where Deo was located spread out in the darkness for miles from the base of the steps. It was commonly believed that the Chain City at this level followed the map of Arc's streets and underneath every house, if you dug far enough, was a prison cell. The Chain City did not get its name from anything so simple, however. Beneath this tier sat the real Chain City, suspended in huge half flooded caverns underneath the top tier were iron 'cage' prisons, sturdy black boxes the size of houses, where Arc's most deadly and most hidden enemies were incarcerated. Walkways lit by torchlight connected each cage and guards patrolled in the perpetual gloom. 

Deo had no recollection as to what had started the fight. Often, when he wound up in trouble, there would be long periods of uncertainty about the cause, but there was invariably one common denominator; Deo. In many ways, it was the wealth of the Torres family that had ruined Deo, his father, Kordah of Torres, had doted on everything his son had done since the day he was born, but paradoxically had seen very little use for him. The wealth of the House of Torres, which flowed endlessly from the ban, established by the family generations earlier, had been secured before Deo's birth. His sister, Marta some five years his senior had been entrusted with the future of the Vault of the Heavens; Deo, in his heart, knew that this was the right decision; there was almost nothing he could be trusted not to destroy. Rarely did he do anything out of malice, most of his sins were ones of omission. Deo's skill as a child had always been in evading the study that his tutors had demanded of him; instead he had perfected the ability to talk his way out of the belt or the birch.

This, then, had become the model for Deo's life. He had a talent for nothing and an interest in everything. Deo, now 21, drifted from interest to interest, at times fantasising that he might be a swordsman, an artist, a sea captain or a craftsman. Money being no object and the family finding it easy to indulge whatever whim he chose (all the easier to keep him away from the essential business that sustained them all), he was doomed to live a life of uncomfortable leisure. In fleeting moments of self examination, Deo wondered why he was so bored. Before he dismissed the thoughts away altogether, the passing insight that his life of leisure was the root cause of his unease would come to him. Actually doing something about this, actually making meaningful changes sounded like to costly an idea to entertain. In all of this, drink had emerged as a solution. Deo, still athletic, handsome and young had been gifted with the charisma and looks that opened doors for him, even when he was too drunk to open them himself. This time, however, things seemed different. In most instances, a coterie of friends, bodyguards and paid helpers cleared up after his drinking binges. They paid for the damage to taverns, hostelries, shooed away wronged women and made scandals vanish as quickly as they emerged. The one place a member of the Torres family was not meant to wind up was in jail, even though it was where so many of them rightly belonged.

As he slowly sobered up on the cold stone floor, he remembered that there had been another man, someone he vaguely knew. This was the person he had been fighting, no, not fighting, duelling. He had stumbled out of the tavern, a sword was pressed into his hand by somebody and he had swung it wildly at his opponent. He could remember the sky blue cloak of a gentleman and...

Oh no...

The amber trim of the cloak. An amber trim Deo knew all too well. The Young Lords of the Port wore those very same colours. These were the influential and powerful sons of the merchant nobility who strutted with irritating self importance across the many miles of Arc's docklands, surveying the vast wealth that flowed in and out of the city every day (much of it financed by the Vault of the Heavens). These were the younger sons of great mercantile families, slightly less well off versions of Deo himself. Whichever one he had fought with a sword, he had no idea, no recollection of a face or a name, only the certainty that this time, like every other he provoked it. Fighting with the scum of the streets was a different proposition. When he had smashed a bottle over the head of a poor or forgettable nobody in the past it was almost a given that there would be no consequences. Anyone foolish enough to seek recompense for one of Deo's offences would have a visitation from his father's entourage and soon come to regret their actions. A Young Lord was an entirely different league of trouble with a strong representation at the Azure Chamber, there was virtually no chance of bribing or bullying them into staying quiet. Deo was unsure what it was that he would need to 'go away', he couldn't remember what he had done and who he had done it too. However, the mounting dread in his gut grew by the minute as he crouched in the dark, the suspicion that this time the rules had changed began to form into a hard and terrifying certainty.