Fiery Furnace

[NekoButcher]

(Closed)

The train rolled on through the cold, clickity clack, clickity clack, clickity clack. Its sound was monotonous, dull and boring. As Pounder looked out the window onto the vast expanse of snow that lay before him, he wondered if he would go to St. Denebriel’s Cathedral again when he arrived in Knife’s Edge. He had been their one time before, two years ago, when he was feeling at his lowest. He had killed, cheerfully and without mercy, and he was wondering what he was becoming. Now he knew, he was a nomad, unwelcome ever to return to Alerar.

Pounder tried not to think too much about it as he caught one of the last trains leading for Salvar. Given the news he’d heard about the brewing Civil War, he was surprised that even this train ran. There were very few passengers even now. Pounder preferred that. If a member of the Kyorl or the Mazzra recognized him, the large feline knew that things could get ugly. There were only so many exits on a train, so many places that were soft enough to jump to from a moving train, and only so many opportunities to escape.

Thus, as the train reached a screeching halt, the former butcher’s hair stood on end and he instinctively reached for his dagger. “Shit…” he thought, biting down on his lip. “Someone’s identified me…” He looked around, there weren’t too many people nearby, and he hadn’t remembered seeing anyone leave his car. “But who…”

Pounder knew he was going to need an escape plan, he just didn’t know exactly who from. In Alerar, he had been fortunate enough to meet a maniacal dark elf who had no qualms with slaughtering her own kind. Pounder doubted that he would meet another like her on a train.

Soon, the car startled to rattle. Pounder got up, but practically fell immediately after. He grabbed onto his seat and looked out the window. There were people rattling the car. “It’s not Alerar after me…” he realized. “It’s even worse!” He had no idea why there was going to be this sudden assault on the train, but he assumed that it had something to do with the rumors of the Civil War that he had been hearing about.

Immediately, Pounder sheathed his iron dagger and then made his way out into the center of the aisle. He cleared his throat and began to speak to the other passengers, many of whom were too busy panicking to even look out the window.

“It looks like we’re under attack,” he said, in slow Tradespeak so even those less familiar with the language could understand him. “I don’t know who by, or what for, but it seems someone’s after us. I suggest running, and I suggest doing it together. If we’re not careful, then we will end up dead.”

He looked around at the people in the car. None of them looked like fighters. Pounder shook his head. What he had thought was the boon of a few people around him had suddenly transformed itself into a curse.