[ghostwriter]

// Open //

Verdi was humming to himself as he padded down a precarious old two by four, ginger rail crooked above his back, a sizeable pigeon in his jaws. His amber eyes were bright with enthusiasm—he has always been a wanderer, but this place was well supplied enough to settle down, as far as he was concerned. It was teeming with rats and pigeons, and the hunting was ridiculously easy.