The Redcaps

“Of late I find myself suffering an alien compulsion that grabs hold of my will and drags me down towards their grottoes and lairs. Their habitations are certainly not a place one of my station should ever be seen to visit; they are squat-houses and the underside of canals and bridges, filled with detritus human and otherwise. And yet these devils are the only people in this damned City who produce the tincture I require. Without it I suffer chills and most profound listlessness, yet with just one drop ingested I feel ready to take on the world. Oh, that it lasted for longer! But my vial is running low, and soon I must travel again underneath the bridges, searching for the fungus-encrusted man who can provide me with what I need…”

- From the personal diary of the Marquis de Vournement, of the Renaissant.

In any society, you will find haves and have-nots, and the City is no exception. The only difference is that in the City, even those that live on the street may have superhuman power to their name, it's just that when they came to the City they didn't have enough. Unable to carve out a niche of their own, many of them end up living with the other transients under the canals and inside the derelict houses on the city's outskirts. Among these people, however, a network has formed, a new group that takes advantage of the skills of their previous lives and their status as invisibles to do things nobody else in the City can do. These are the Redcaps.

AKA Cooks, Pushers, Mushroom Men

“Eye of dog and viridian moss, distilled through five refluxes and purified by the seventh ward of Aspillard. You'll not find anything like it - 99% pure and the longest, cleanest high on the market. Of course, all my clientele care about is their little glass vials, but mark my words: this is art, and I am a genius.” - Old Dog Red, alchemist.

The city has a lot of hedonists and addicts, constantly chasing the next fix. Where's there's demand, supply will be created; that's where the Cooks step in. Gathering weird ingredients from the Underground or conjuring them through miraculous means, they use their alchemy to create a wide array of narcotics in their dens around the city. They pay other Redcaps to gather the ingredients, and distribute their product through the Strays, making them virtually untraceable. If you do manage to get into contact with them though, they are very willing to take commissions, for the right price.

AKA Ankle-Biters, Urchins, Gutter-runners

“What're you looking at? You thinking a kid shouldn't be here or something? I've been on the streets since I was born, arsehole, and know my way round here a lot better than a silk-stockinged bastard like you.” - Quick David, of the Grove Street Runners.

The city isn't a great place to be born. Even if your family is loving enough to take care of you they might not be powerful enough to protect you, and there isn't any kind of social safety net to fall back on. So it is that many of the city's children end up on the streets, among the Redcaps. There they find some manner of protection, kept safe from the worst of things, but like all of the City's inhabitants they have to work for their keep. As message-carriers for the other factions, drug-runners for the Cooks, or spies for the Whispers, they earn their keep. Those that grow old have tended to leave the Strays to find employment in the City, but in recent times some have decided to stay with them, looking after their younger brothers and sisters and trying to keep them safe. Working for any social change in the City is often a swift way to get yourself disappeared, but it's rumoured that this new crop may have backing all the way from the Canopy…

“So you don't want to know what the Baron of Blood was doing last night? What about if you knew the Lady of Flames was involved? Hah, that got your attention. Now, how's about that drink?” - Blind Aggie

With political intrigue and manouvering rampant in the city, information comes at a premium. Some of the Redcaps have taken great advantage of this, selling to the highest bidder the things overheard down dark alleys and on desolate rooftops. The Whispers don't ask much for their information; food for a night, or a new coat to keep out the cold. Still, it's a dangerous game they play; powerful figures in the City are taking note of their little spy network, and it's yet to be seen whether they will end up tolerated as tools or destroyed as annoyances.