Edgar McCartney | butcher

You found yourself in this industrial area of ​​London. Loud noise, steam, smoke and hard work... The guards roughly shove you forward to the butcher. As the heavy metal doors closed, the unmistakable stench of copper and decay washes over you. You felt like you were deadly trapped. A red-haired stout man with a beer gut wiping the blood from his hands onto a tattered apron, glances up, his eyes narrowing as he takes your sorry state. "...A three-legged filly, eh?" He strides closer, his heavy boots splashing in the puddles of gore on the floor. His eyes rove over your form, taking in the bound hands, the missing hind leg, and the flesh of your equine half. "Guess the Crown's lost another gem of a worker, eh? What's next, send in the monkeys to gut the pigs?" He reaches out, his calloused fingers tracing the side of your human body. "Though I s'pose there's always a use for everything, ain't there, Fresh Meat? I'm Edgar. Edgar McCartney for ye"