Into The Fray

[Farmboy]

((Closed to Letho))

Life was simple once, and looking back, I can tell just how easy my life was. I lived day-by-day without a care in the world. Then, my biggest concern was how bad I would get punished if Father caught me with the Jenson daughter, or sneaking back into my room from a late night of mischief. But now, my biggest concern is to stay alive, to be cautious and aware of my every movement. With one step forward, I take two glances back. I investigate every alley and corner, every nook and cranny, praying to the gods they will not find me there.

For fear is now my companion. The fear that they will find me. The fear of what they will do when they find me. The fear for my friends and family. Must they go through more heartache? Must Mother find that she has two dead loved ones instead of one? Will she cry out in despair if she finds my cold, dead form in the dawning sun? Or will she be wrought with guilt, and ne'er again forgive herself?

I am an idiot to think of this life as better. I can remember a time, not too long ago, when I wished for a more exciting existence. Where the biggest worry would not be whether or not the harvest would come in full, but rather, whether or not I would find luxurious comforts at the end of my road. Only now, when I have lost everything, do I truly understand.

A life is not determined by the number of women that share your bed, or the amount of gold that you hold in your satchel. It is determined by the choices you make, and when faced with those choices, how you can better yourself for the trials you are soon to find. For what life is worth living, if you choose not to live it?


~Braden Larn

[Farmboy]

"Braden," Mother called from the kitchen, "come eat your breakfast." Braden awoke with a grunt, bothered by the fact that he did not get to finish his dream with the tavern maiden. He was surprised to find that it was morning, and after taking a quick glance out of his open window, he could tell that it was well past dawn and almost midday, if he had judged correctly. The fact that both Mother and Father let him sleep so late was a dead giveaway that they knew he was out late that night.

But why did they not confront him about it? Better yet, why did they let him sleep so late if they knew he had snuck out? Braden thought it strange, for that was not the first time they had been so lenient with him. It had happened many times before, but only just recently. Now that he thought of it, it had started just after they came up short on the harvest. He wondered if everything was going to be alright, if they could somehow find the coin to make up for the lost crop. But they had been in tighter spots before, and even then they made it out fine. So he was confident they could do so again.

"Braden," Mother scolded as she went into his room, "breakfast is on the table. So I suggest you get off your back and go eat it before I have your Father make you till the fields by hand!" Braden knew that she was just blowing hot air, like most of her empty threats, but decided to try to keep her in a good mood anyway. She was easier to live with when she was in a good mood.

"I'm up, I'm up." Braden rolled off his bed, laying his feet gently on the floor. He stood and raised his open palms up towards the sky, as if he were trying to pluck to sun from its high perch. He felt a fatigue set in his limbs, even after he stretched, and knew he should not have gone with Daron the night before. Even if his late night adventures were fun, they were hard work. From the running, to the hiding, and to the running again.

Yet, deep down, he knew that if Daran were to ask again, Braden would surely comply. The thought made him laugh a little. Ever-rebellious, and ever-idiotic. Daran and Braden were infamous across the farmsteads of Radasanth for their mischief, and that was something they were both very proud of.

Slowly he retrieved a shirt of his from the floor, and put it on. He worked his way sheepishly to the kitchen, where his sister sat quietly, eating her breakfast. Instantly, Braden could tell something was wrong. His sister was usually the epitome of energy, using every chance she could get to talk Braden's ear off about one thing or another. He sat down cautiously at the table, took up his fork and began to eat.

He kept glancing at his sister, who had a nervous look on her face. He could see her hand slightly shake with every bite. But before he had time to think, Father came into the room. He had been working outside, which left him caked with sweat and red in the face. A sour look was set on his face, spelling certain doom for Braden.

"I'm glad you could join us," he said sarcastically, holding fast to his stern gaze. "If it had not been for your snoring, we would have feared the worst." Braden swallowed slightly, caught in Father's mesmerizing vortex. He sighed deeply when Father broke off the stare and walked over to the table. He sat down with a grunt, and began to eat. Father was a strong man, even if he did have a slight gut, but he was getting old.

Many times Braden had heard him lament over the things he used to be able to do. Like carry more than half of a crate of wheat without straining his back, or plow the fields before midday had struck. But he was too stubborn to give the responsibility to Braden so soon. That, and he thought his son had not proven himself responsible enough.

"I've been thinking," Father said between bites, "and I believe it's time for you to do more around here." Braden visibly shrunk. He hated working the farm. He was not lazy, he was just bored. He thought he could find a better use for his time than such a menial task as plowing.

"So," Father continued, "you're coming with me to Radasanth."

"But I was hoping to-"

"No," Father interrupted, "you won't talk your way out of this one. You're coming with me, and that's it."

"Fine," Braden replied angrily and took another bite of his food. A few moments of uneasy silence ensued, until Braden decided to talk. "What are we going to Radasanth for?"

"I'm going to try and sell some crop, and if we're lucky, I can get someone to take Olaf off our hands." Father referred to the family ox that used to pull the plow. Braden hated to see him go, but ever since they bought Grom they had no more use for him.

"Get your things together," Father commanded, "we leave after breakfast."

[Farmboy]

The ride to Radasanth was both awkward and uncomfortable. Braden knew that Father knew he had gone out late, and that just made the trip even more unbearable. So he just sat quietly, like his sister at breakfast, and listened to the repetitive sound of the horse-drawn wagon make its way. He let it pass the time; let it melt away the troubles that plagued his mind. But Father, like any respectable man would do in the situation, would not let silence dominate the day.

"I know you left last night," He stated, "and honestly, I know why you did it and why you do it still." Braden silently sighed to himself, knowing full well the lecture that was about to befall him.

"I was not always so peacefully resigned to the farmer's life as I am now," Father continued. "I was like you, both as a child and a young adult." He turned and looked Braden in the eye, who was also listening intently. "I hungered for adventure, I lusted for excitement," Braden was surprised by that fact. He had always thought of his father as a farmer, through and through. "And when my chance arose, I let it pass me by."

Father sighed, took a quick glance at the direction of the road before them and their surroundings, and continued, "Not a day goes by that I do not wonder what could have been. What would have happened had I taken the road less traveled." He smiled, looked to Braden once more, and said, "But when those thoughts come forth, and I am forced to recognize my choice, I only have to think of you, and your sister, and your mother, and realize that because of my inaction, I am better for it."

"No life on the road could ever have gifted me with as many joys as I have now." Braden did not know what to say. Father had never opened up to him like this before, and he began to worry.

"Father..." He said quietly.

"Braden, my son," Father began. "No matter what happens, I want you to know that everything will be alright. We can only look ahead from here." Father did just that, looked ahead. They were coming upon the gates of Radasanth, but Braden did not care. Father had just scared him with that statement. Braden was no amateur to interpreting the meanings beneath the words and deep down, he knew rough times were coming.

Radasanth was as vibrant as ever. People lined the streets, vendors called out for interested customers, and every single movement was taken with determination. At least, Father's and Braden's were. They were navigating their way through the Radasanthian streets, and to Braden's thinking, were headed in the direction of the Market district.

But he was proved wrong when they took a turn away from the Market district. He sat silently for a few moments, thinking Father had made a wrong turn and would go back, but when he did not, Braden couldn't help but ask,

"I thought we were going to try to sell some crop?"

"We are," Father said calmly, and in a tone that Braden had never heard him take before.

"But," He started slowly, "the Market district is that way." Braden pointed behind them. Father did not respond. He stayed silent the rest of the way, carefully directing the wagon through the crowds. Only then did Braden recognize his surroundings. They were working their way into the slums, and Braden could only guess what business Father had in there.

Braden's gaze wandered more frequently as the state of the buildings around him began to deteriorate. There seemed to be more grime and filth here than in the rest of Radasanth. He could see the gruff and deadly demeanors of the folk that resided in the buildings they called home. Both desperate and submissive, they would subject themselves to any treatment to earn an extra coin. Braden saw young girls standing in groups at different corners and buildings, and could only imagine what they were there for.

"I'm sorry you have to see this," Father said solemnly.

They continued through the slums for a little while, until finally stopping just in front of a local tavern called Barrel of Monkeys. Braden had never been, nor heard of the place, but judging from the deadly-looking men and women coming and going through its creaky doors, he could tell it was no place for the faint of heart.

"Stay here," Father said as he climbed down from the driver's bench, "and guard the crop." Father reached under the bench and produced a sheathed longsword. Braden's eyes went wide; he did not know he had a sword. Father strapped it onto his belt and tightened it. He wiped any build-up in the corners of his eyes away and slowly took in a deep breath. Something had changed in Father's eyes, Braden could see it. There was a sharpness to his gaze now, and it gave Braden the chills.

"Stay here," Father reiterated. His voice was calm and his face was blank. If Braden had not known him so long as his father, he would have mistaken him with a battle-hardened assassin.

With a nod to his son he entered the loud tavern, leaving Braden atop the wagon, clutching desperately to his wooden stick.

[Farmboy]

Time passed as quickly as a snail would a road. The excruciating fear and anxiety that he felt while shifting his gaze quickly from one place to another was nearly impossible to measure. That was the first experience Braden had had in a place like that. He was always so used to the farmstead, the calm breeze, the light rustle of the leaves, the tranquil repetitive sounds of the animals going about their day.

Now he was forced to face reality. The muck and the filth of the streets, the constant smell of smoke and refuse. It nearly made him vomit. He laughed helplessly at himself. He was always desperate to leave his comfortable life. But for what, another dirty face on the streets? He thought himself lucky. He knew that others more desperate than he would kill for his life, kill for a chance to bring themselves out of the gutters.

But the thought left his mind just as quickly as it had entered. Father walked out of the creaky tavern door, gave a nod to Braden when he saw him to be alright, and waited for the other. A small, thin, lanky man with one eye followed Father out, speaking softly as to keep the matters they discussed private. After every few words Father would nod and interject and let the man continue. The man, someone Braden thought to be quite a shady character, nodded one last time, entered the tavern and came back out with three strong-armed men.

The three men began to walk over to the wagon and Braden visibly tensed. His hands tightened around his wooden stick, and he prepared his feet to kick or run if need be. He soon relaxed though, when he found them to be nothing more than gofers as they began retrieving the bags of crop out of the back of the wagon. While the three men were going back and forth stacking the crop just outside the tavern's door, the one-eyed man walked back into the tavern for a few moments.

He came back out with a large brown envelope in hand, and gave it to Father. Father said what looked liked to be thanks to the one-eyed man, and the man just patted him on the shoulder and whispered something in his ear. Father's face grew grim and he nodded slowly. The one-eyed man told his three workers to take the bags inside and to the store room, and he walked into the tavern.

Father looked inside the envelope, inspected its contents, and slipped it into his pocket. He looked up to Braden, and Braden noticed the softness had returned to his gaze, and smiled. He stashed his longsword back underneath the bench, and climbed up to sit next to Braden.

"Ready to go home?" He asked with a slight cheerful intone to his voice.

Braden sat quietly at first, inspecting his father's features, and asked, "What was that all about?"

Father looked him dead in the eye, smiled, and said, "We sold some crop."


~*~*~*~

Weeks passed and Braden began to believe Father's words. Maybe things were going to be alright. The harvest seemed promising this year, and Father was finding more and more willing customers, so Braden could not help but think things alright.

But one night, while laying awake in his bed, his fears came rushing back as he heard a large knock at the door.

[Farmboy]

It came again, and again, each one more powerful than the last. Braden slowly lifted himself from his bed and made his way to the window. He usually kept it open during the summer, and this time was no different. He could hear faint grumblings coming from outside, no doubt the men making a raucous. He couldn't make anything out, but from the tone and the periodical rise in volume of their voices, Braden could tell they weren't there for pleasant reasons.

He crouched and, being very alert, slowly lifted his gaze to the window pane. Braden's room was right next to the door, so if he was careful enough, he could get a very clear view of the men. They looked odd. They were scruffy and pale, wearing dark clothes and grim faces. It seemed to Braden that they had seen their fair share of the road, and nothing was a more apparent sign then the weapons hanging at their belts.

One man, the larger of the two, wore a steel cleaver, one sharing close similarities with a butcher's cleaver. The man had short hair that mopped the top of his head, with scars criss-crossed on his forearms and biceps. The other, a small man about the size of the innkeeper from Radasanth, wore twin rapiers with a gold trim about the handles. His eyes were narrow and sharp, not unlike the gaze Father had adorned before entering the Barrel of Monkeys, and the lower half of his face was covered in a dark purple cloth.

After the few moments he took inspecting the pair, Braden could hear himself breathing. At first he paid no heed to it, but then quickly recoiled from the window once he saw the thin man turn to look his way. He heard a slight murmuring, coming from the thin man no doubt, and he winced at his own mistake. He heard footfalls and could only imagine the thin man finding him there, crouched, and giving Braden a closer look at his ornate rapiers.

But before the thin man took another step, Father came to the door, and Braden was surprised at how silent he was. Braden didn't even hear him get out of bed. Incredible, he thought. Whatever life Father lead before becoming a farmer must have been wondrous. He heard Father greet the two men, feigning weariness from a long night's sleep. They exchanged words for a few minutes until one of them spoke a little too loudly, and the other two shushed him.

From there Braden could hear them moving...towards his window! He quickly stashed himself to the side of his cupboard, out of sight of the window. They were talking amongst themselves and Braden made out a few words as they passed.

"...won't be heard from the barn. We can speak there without..." Father's voice seemed strained, like he was under a lot of stress.

Braden told himself countless times while crouching by his cupboard to just go back to bed, fall asleep, and forget it until the morning. Something inside him though, something deep, told him not to go back to bed, told him not to forget it. So, reluctantly, he crept out of the house and silently made his way to the barn.

Light resonated from within the barn. Father must have lit the torches. As quietly as he could Braden snuck to the opposite side of the barn, a place where he could listen to the conversation intently, and not be spotted. He stayed hunched over the entire time, carefully making his way into the barn through the pig sty. The pigs were sleeping by then, snoring as one big collective.

"This time is different," Father said to the two men.

"How so?" The thin man asked. "You came to us, asked for money and promised to pay us back, yet time passed and we still seem to be missing our payment." He moved dangerously close to Father, and Braden strained to hear. "Tell me then, Garret, how is that different from last time?"

"It isn't if you ask me," The large man said. Father's hard gaze fell upon him and the large man shifted oddly. Braden smirked slightly; it seemed Father's gaze did not just affect him.

"No one was asking you," the thin man retorted. He gave Father one more look and backed off. The large man shut his mouth.

"I can get the money," Father said, "I just need a little more time."

"You've had nothing but time, Garret." The thin man sat down on a crate and continued. "And frankly, the boss is getting anxious."

"And you know how he gets when he's anxious," the large man put in. How would Father know how this 'boss' was?

"Just a little longer...please." Father seemed desperate.

"Look, you've already come to us three times," the thin man replied. "And you've been extremely helpful in the past, which is why he hasn't sent anyone to kill you." Braden was confused, and he wondered what kind of help his father had given.

"He hasn't?" Father asked skeptically, "So then I would be correct in guessing this is just a late night visit from a couple old friends?"

"Exactly," the thin man replied, "we're just here to exchange pleasantries, reminisce, and speak briefly about the loans that have yet to be paid to our employer." A smile cracked on both of the men's faces. Braden could tell Father didn't find it as amusing.

"Yet, we have done neither of the former." Father stated plainly.

"It's more of a line to feed the government's lapdogs, just in case they decide to stick their dirty little hands into our business." Braden was suprised by that. Whoever was in trouble with the government, obviously wasn't the best people to get involved with.

"Of course," Father chuckled, "what respectable Coronian would want to see the end of the Syndicate? They do so much good as it is."

"We've been keeping you on your feet haven't we?" The thin man said. "We may not be respected among our peers, honest respect anyway, but we look out for our own."

That struck a chord with Father, "I'm not like you anymore; I've changed."

"Yes, you have," the thin man said, "and the boss respects that. But money is money, and when someone holds out on us, we make sure they understand that we mean business." The large man began cracking his knuckles and started walking towards Father, until the thin man stopped him with his hand.

"Go easy on him," he said. "He's practically family."

"Yeah," the large man said. "That distant cousin you can't stand."

Father stood upright before the large man, looked him straight in the eye. He was prepared to take whatever the big man could dish out.

"You don't have to do this Grim," Father said. "You know you don't."

Grim shook his head, smiled faintly, and replied, "Sorry mate, I don't take orders from you no more." He punched Father in the gut, and Father grunted in pain as he fell to his knees. Grim punched him again in the jaw and a spray of blood came out his mouth.

"No!" Braden exclaimed. He jumped out from the pig sty and let his presence be known. Immediately he wished he had not. Now the two thugs were looking at him, their deadly stares cutting through him like a hot knife through butter. Braden froze in place, his limbs immovable. All he could do was watch, and he looked to Father, tears in his eyes and blood on his face.

[Farmboy]

"Well, what do we have here?" The thin man said. "Aw, Garret, is this your son? My how you've grown!"

"Leave him out of this Teldran," Father replied through a mouth full of blood. "This does not concern him."

"You're right, it doesn't," Teldren chuckled slightly, "but it can very quickly if you don't pay what you owe us."

"I told you, I don't have the money," Father said forcefully. "Give me a little more time!"

"You know I can't do that, Garret." The thin man said, "But I'll leave you a little something to remember us by."

He looked to Grim, the gargantuan beast of muscle and bone, and said, "Rough up the kid."

"My pleasure," was all Grim offered in reply.

The hulking man started to walk towards Braden. He was rubbing the knuckles of each hand, smearing Father's blood on the surface. Braden stood tall before the beast, not out of courage or determination, but out of sheer terror. He was almost shaking, his breathing heavy, his mouth agape. The only words that came into his mind then were those that instilled more fear in Braden.

"What a shame, he was a cute kid."

"This is between me and you, Teldran," Father pleaded. "Call him off."

He was slowly closing the gap, each thud of his huge boots made Braden's heart drop.

"No," Teldran replied, "I'd rather watch."

"Father..." was all Braden could squeak out. Enthralled in the giant's gaze, Braden could not even begin to imagine his father's face. He could hear his pleading, but Braden knew it was of no use.

"Run, Braden!" Father's voice cut the fear that wrapped itself around Braden. His eyes shot to Father, and only widened when he saw the spectacle ensue. Father had reached for one of Teldran's rapiers and the thin rogue replied with a punch to the face. Father grunted away the pain and continued on struggling, not only for himself, but for Braden.

The two men were stuck in a deadlock. They grabbed at each other's arms, both desperately keeping the other from producing a weapon. Braden stared on dumbfounded. He was witnessing Father protecting him with every ounce of strength he could call. But before Braden had the mind to help, he quickly remembered the lumbering brute that was making his way towards him.

He quickly looked to the large man, only to find that he too was watching the struggle. So Braden looked back to his father, thinking himself safe until the event had resolved. What he saw left a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Slowly, little by little, Father was losing ground. He was growing weary, as Teldran still had masses of energy in him.

The thin man noticed this also, and quickly took advantage of the situation. He head butted Father in the face, and instantly his grasp loosened. Father dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes. Braden noticed that he was still conscious, but barely. Teldran's icy gaze fell hard upon Father, and the sharpness of his deadly eyes grew.

A chill ran up Braden's spine as the sound of Teldran's rapier slowly moving from it's sheath rang out in the night. No words left the rogue's lips, no recitations of retort or reply. Braden could see it clearly in his eyes; Teldran would let his rapier speak for him. Slowly he placed himself above Father, slowly he raised his rapier, and slowly his breaths came as the moment before the kill made itself apparent.

Braden was caught in the moment, the one time where your body refuses to believe what your mind is telling you. The one time were your breath is caught in your chest and all you can do is watch in helpless horror. He told himself repeatedly in that moment that what he was seeing was not real. That he must be dreaming, back in his bed, where everything was safe and everything was normal.

But as the steel of the rapier made its descent, he knew it was real. He admitted it to himself, an admission he did not want to make. For what was laid before his eyes would forever be known as the most horrific, terrible, and life changing event in the young man's life.

Father and Braden gasped in unison as the rapier punctured flesh. Teldran imbedded the weapon in Father's chest, a hungry look in his eyes. Braden had no use for words, for none could describe the event that had just taken place. Tears welled in his eyes, breaths came quicker to him than if he was running at full sprint, and a realization struck his mind. His Father was dead, or dying, and as it seemed, he would never get him back.

His senses came to him then, they told him to run, to run far and leave the presence of such monsters. And he would have listened if it were not for the sad image of his father, lying motionless on the hay, blood beginning to pool around his body. Another feeling began to well up inside him, not of sadness or despair, but of anger, rage. These bastards had murdered his father!

Frantically he looked for something, anything he could use. After noticing that the thugs were no longer paying attention to him, his gaze rested upon the perfect object to channel his anger: a pitchfork. He moved swiftly, sweeping it up from the ground and into his grasp. He tightened his grip as the thought of finding vengeance played over and over in his mind.

Teldran looked at the fading man lying before him with contempt. No remorse found him, no regret gripped his will, as he was taught. He retrieved a cloth from his pocket, the many stains of blood nearly turning it scarlet. He ran the soft-threaded piece along the bloody surface of the rapier, leaving no mark or no sign that it had ever been used. But Teldran knew differently. He sheathed the blade, and began to turn his attention to the man's son once more, only to find a pitchfork run him through.

Braden's anger spilled out in that one act. His vengeance had been dealt, and the only rational thought that came to his mind was, an eye for an eye.

[Farmboy]

Time stood still as most life-changing events did. Now that the vengeful act had been carried out, Braden did not know what to do next. So he stayed motionless, staring at the thin man impaled by his pitchfork. The light began to fade from his eyes; the purposeful look on his hard face softening slowly. In those few moments of silence, Braden felt nothing. No satisfaction, no regret, no frustration. He was empty, like an open well waiting to be filled. A thought came to his mind. A thought that made him laugh, cry, and growl at the same time.

That must have been how Teldran was when he killed Father.

He would not let himself become the same as Teldran. He would not block off his emotions to become that which he was not: a killer. Yet, when looking upon the frail form of the thin man supported only by his pitchfork, he knew that he had become exactly that. He cried, he laughed, he yelled, he moaned and before he realized it he was on his back, lying breathless and broken. The force of the blow was so great that it had knocked the wind out of him, and although no bone in the young man's body broke, it would take days for the pain to leave his limbs.

Braden struggled to his knees, feeling as if he had been trampled by a horse. His mind was jumbled, and he did not register the sight before him. He looked to the ground next to him, the broken handle of the pitchfork he once wielded. He looked to the great beast towering above him, unbridled rage ruling its eyes. Braden's neck was taken easily in its grasp, the large fingers seeming to double over his flesh and meeting at the same place they started. Braden knew that face somewhere; he swore he did. That mopped hair, the scarred skin that covered its arms.

"You killed him," the beast growled. "I will make you pay." The beast tightened its grip and Braden could not breathe. He clawed, he flailed and he found no success in either. His movements slowed and his eyes grew weary. Sleep seemed alluring to him now. To sleep, and to hope that it was all dream.

"No," the beast softly stated. "You will not have it so easy." It drew in close, the hot breath upon his face gave him chills. "I want to hear you scream!" The beast's bestial roar erupted in his ears and sent shockwaves of energy through him. He was raised higher by the rippling arms of the beast, and he determined its true intentions as the arm began to cock back and sent him flying through the air. He was given back his breath only to have it taken away. He crashed into a wooden pillar, sending waves of pain up and down his arm.

Gasping and reaching for something stable, Braden heard the faint sound of glass breaking. He coughed as he made his way to the sound, his breath returning to him. He saw a fire burning in the hay, spreading rapidly within the surroundings. It seemed to Braden that the fates were playing with him now, adding more things for the young man to worry over as his world crumbled around him. Nothing accentuated that fact more than a tug on his hair, forcing his head back.

"This is no time to wander off," the beast teased. "There is more fun to be had!" Braden could not see exactly what his hand was searching for, but once his fingers found something -- anything at all -- that would delay his torture, he would surely use it. Once he found something and readied it in his shaky grasp, he set it to swinging. He had no sight to guide his arm, in exception of the barn ceiling, and went by hearing alone. He saw the enflamed piece of wood hit home against the beast's head and his hair was freed by its vice-like grip.

Mounds of satisfaction came to him then, as he basked in the cries and groans of pain coming from the beast that clutched its burned face. Braden readied himself for the beast to return his blow. He took hold of the fiery wood with both hands like a sword, a stance that he often took with his wooden stick. The beast recovered, red marks splayed across its skin from the impact of the wooden slab. It stalked in slowly, using its size as an advantage.

It would inch closer and Braden would swipe the air before it, leaving a blur of light from the makeshift weapon, and the beast would dodge the blow harmlessly. Every few moments the beast would repeat the process, somehow growing closer. It inched in one last time and Braden swung, and the beast caught it in his grasp, just below the flame. Braden tugged desperately, trying to free it from the fingers of the beast, and to no avail.

With one great pull the weapon was freed from Braden's hands, and the young man gasped at the sudden movement. A smile cracked on the beast's face and it tossed the weapon aside into another stack of hay. Though it did little to help feed the fire that now raged around them.

"There is nowhere to go," the beast said. It closed in once more and readied its knuckles for a workout. It seemed nothing could halt its advance until a groaning came loud from the framework of the barn. The flames had worked their way up from the hay and equipment and began to dance among the rafters. Braden could tell from the groaning of the wood that they did not have long. Maybe not even long enough to escape.

The beast played the odds in its mind, and even though it seemed a beast of pure rage, a moment of rationality dawned upon it. It too would be caught in the fire if it lingered any longer. So without even a second glance to Braden it rushed to Teldran's lifeless form, removed the broken pitchfork from his chest and hoisted the corpse over its shoulder. It looked to Braden one last time.

"We will be seeing each other again," the beast promised. Even with the heat from the flames, that statement alone sent the hair on Braden's neck to stand. The beast left in a hurry and ran off into the night. But with that one moment of reprieve, Braden had other things to worry about: his father. The young man rushed to his side, and immediately cringed. He knew Father was dead, and he made no attempt to find out otherwise. He placed the broken pitchfork in his hands, the instrument of his rage, and cradled Father's head in his lap.

Tears streamed from his face, and he took one last moment to remember the man that had made an impact on him the most. With the barn burning or not, he owed Father that much. But the gods gave him no time to wallow as Braden heard the crackling of wood and, hesitantly, he looked up. One of the burning beams was descending down upon him. He quickly jumped out of harm's way as it landed where he had just been sitting. Father's clothes were set on fire and the dead man made no move.

Suddenly, in the direction of his home, he heard a shrill scream, the one of his sister. He looked one last time to Father underneath the burning beam, and said good-bye as he hastily rushed to save his sibling.

[Farmboy]

With labored breaths and grunting strides he ran. His mouth was dry and his heart beat vehemently in his chest. He kept his mind focused, telling himself not to look back, not to gaze upon the burning pyre of his father's demise. He had one goal now, one mindset: his sister. Even the hulking beast that he had just confronted could not halt his steps. Braden would not subject his sister to torment and death at the hands of a group of thugs and miscreants. The thought alone pushed him further, his legs working furiously against the hard-packed earth.

He came upon the house and threw fear aside as he bursted through the broken front door. A struggle had occured. Every room lied in disarray. Braden searched desperately both with his eyes and his hands for any sign of his mother. He cared not for material things, he tossed aside any and all in his path. It was not until he heard Mother's strained voice calling for him did he truly realize how much of a raucous he had made. A new hope guided his movements and he followed the call to its source. Mother laid broken against the wall, blood trickling down her chin and from the insides of her nostrils.

"Braden," she called faintly now, one arm outstretched towards her only son, and the other struggled to prop her upright but failed miserably. She grunted as her arm gave out and she slid back down the wall with a thud. In an instant Braden was at her side. He was careful not to inflict any pain as he moved her into a comfortable position. Mother smiled softly, resting her shaky hand on Braden's cheek.

"My son," she said with tired eyes, "my beautiful son. Take your father's sword," - she pointed weakly to a cupboard across the room, its wooden doors were broken and the contents were spilled on the floor around it - "and bring her back." She stopped momentarily to catch her breath before continuing, "Bring Josie back...bring her home...bring...her..." Mother's hand slowly found its place on her chest. Tears fell from Braden's eyes once again. He sobbed as he slowly slid his mother's eyes closed and he found some small measure of solace from the faint smile that froze upon her face.

She seemed happy, serene even. Braden laughed at how the gods mocked him. They took everything from him and yet he remained. Deep down he wished, no he yearned for them to take him as well. He did not know how life could go on with such a traumatic series of events. They took everything from him and laughed. No...not everything. There was one piece that remained, one piece that Braden could hold on to. And he intended to do just that. He would defend this piece, or die trying. He laid his mother to rest, and prepared himself for the time ahead. He calmly walked over to the cupboard. He retrieved the loose board on the bottom that concealed his father's sword. He was past the point of anger. A sharpness was set in his gaze. If he had taken the time to look in a mirror, he would have noticed the striking resemblence it held with his father's.

Braden took the sword up in his grasp and was surprised at how familiar it felt in his hands. The black hilt, trimmed with silver. The sheathe, made from a hard leather. Braden slowly slid the blade out from the sheathe, unaffected by the sound of the sword scraping as it was released from the sheathe's grasp. The blade was made from a dark metal, as dark at the night it seemed. An insignia was branded upon its surface, just above the hilt. A half moon high in the sky, surrounded by a starry sky. Upon further inspection, Braden realized the isignia was not branded, but somehow melded with the blade. The image faded into the blade like a cloud would fade into the sky.

"Midnight," Braden heard himself say. He did not recognize the name, nor did he know he was the one that said it. Did the blade somehow communicate with him? He shook the thought away, dismissing it as an absurd coincidence. Besides, he had more pressing matters at hand. Braden sheathed the sword, breathed deeply to himself, and gathered his things.

He would bring her back, he thought, he would bring her home.

[Farmboy]

Dawn arrived much swifter than Braden had anticipated. He felt groggy and weak; his limbs were sore and aching from the walk to Radasanth. He scoffed to himself. He seemed less and less a hero as the seconds passed. He realized the folly of his mission now that he had the time to think on it further. How would he get into the Barrel of Monkeys? Surely the brutish Grim had given his description to the rest of the Syndicate members inside the tavern. And even if he somehow made it inside, how did he know for sure that that was where Josie was being held? For all he knew they could have sold her into slavery at that very moment.

Braden cringed at the thought. He wiped his mind clean of any images of his poor fragile sister being placed in shackles as quickly as possible. Over the next few moments he decided not to think about it. He would not let his doubts and fears overcome his confidence in the mission. He needed every part of his being to be ready, especially his mind. He would need his reflexes sharp and his thoughts kept on the moment. So, he cautiously looked to his surroundings, looking for any and all surprises.

He kept his wooden stick in hand, thankful for its solid support as he walked with weary limbs. An old brown hood covered the top half of his face, save for his eyes. He kept it as low as possible trying to keep himself hidden. Midnight was strapped deftly across his back, the mere presence of the sword keeping any potential enemies at bay and providing a small measure of comfort as the young adult walked the tough streets of Radasanth. The pack, filled with supplies and the blood-encrusted broken pitchfork rustled with every step.

Braden made his way for the slums, the perfect area for the Syndicate to leech on the people Radasanth while making a pretty penny. But, because of the Syndicate's actions, the surrounding area slowly started to spiral into a state of disarray. Hence the use of the word "slums". To Braden's logic, he thought it would be safer to stay in the slums where he could blend in and disappear from the Syndicate's agents and somehow find a way into the tavern. Unbeknownst to the young adult was the fact that almost every person in the slums was on the Syndicate's payroll and would turn him over in an instant if they knew the Syndicate was looking for him.

Braden made a mental note to trust nobody; he could not take the chance of being captured. And suddenly he was back on the seat of his wagon, eyes shifting cautiously, hands clinging to his wooden stick. The feeling had come rushing back; the feeling of being in over his head. If it were not for that brief moment of paranoia, Braden never would have noticed the two men that were slowly inching towards him. They were scruffy and, from the look of them, would fit in very well with the Syndicate.

They inched closer, ever so closer, and Braden knew what he had to do. He made a run for it, and sprung as a cheetah would spring on her prey. He dodged and weaved; he zigged and zagged; he slowly began to lose his pursuers. The only aspect of this great chase he did not take into account was the slim chance that someone would get into his path and stop him. Once again the gods showed their poor sense of humor, for while running from his hunters, Braden took a glance back and slammed straight into the broad chest of an innocent bystander.

Braden landed with a grunt, the surprise and shock rendering him dumbfounded. He looked up to the brick wall he had just come into contact with and could not help but be amazed. A man stood before him, barely shaken from the encounter, with dark brown hair, a thick brown beard and the most intense set of brown eyes Braden had ever seen. The man permeated dignity and confidence and Braden could tell just from looking at him that he was well-versed in the art of combat. Braden noticed that the man was stronger than he appeared, for the multitude of weapons the warrior adorned (especially the large broadsword strapped to his back) did not encumber his movement at all.

Braden stared up at him for several moments, caught in the majesty of the man's royal demeanor. Maybe not in the clothes he wore, but the way he held himself; the way his posture was perfectly balanced. The balance that could only be taught to royalty and thieves, and the young man knew this man to be no thief, not with the weapons he carried.

So without realizing it, Braden looked into the man's awesome gaze and uttered a single word, "Help."

[Letho]

The Slums.

Every time he visited the infamous district of Corone capitol, Letho was reminded how much he disliked this part of the city. It was a lawless land, an ugly, festering wound in an otherwise dignifying face of Radasanth. Crime and grime seemed to accumulate in this urbane wilderness, piling layer after layer of hopelessness, sorrow, anger, malice. It didn’t matter where you were in the Slums; it was always the same sight. Same shabby shacks patched up with ten different types of material, same dirty ignorant faces of the youngest, same half-shady, half-concerned and all-callous faces of the grown-ups, same accusing eyes that blamed others for their misfortune. There were deviations, of course, an occasional aspirer with a dream, but nine out of ten of them got corrupted by the hood. The tenth usually got a knife in the back. There seemed to be no way out of the Slums. It was like quicksand; the more you tried to get out, the more the greedy hands of others pulled you back in.

But Letho Ravenheart didn’t hate the place because it looked like hell’s doorstep and smelled even worse. Regardless of what message his indurate face and piercing eyes sent, there was compassion behind this hardened mask. He hated it because it used to be his home once. It wasn’t just Radasanth Slums. Every town had its own sty for the outcasts and unwanted and he’s been through them all, wandering from one to the next like a piece of flotsam carried by the waves. Those were the bad days of his life, the dark days, the post-exile days, the no-light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel days. He was weak back then, weak enough to let himself go to the tide of despair, weak enough to give up, and the Slums always reminded him of that weakness that he resented.

But today the visit to this part of Radasanth was unavoidable. The fact of the matter was that if you wanted information on some shady businesses, there was no better place to prod then the very nest of shadiness. Information, loyalty, secrecy, life, they all had a price here; all you had to do is meet it. Today he needed info on some slaves. Slave trading was prohibited by the Corone Government, but in places like this, where the only law was the law of the strongest, it flourished. Everybody knew about it, but the Syndicate’s grasp over the Slums was too strong, especially since they had a secret pact with the Government. It was one of those things that nobody dared to talk about, a rumor that is always spoken in a whisper, but it didn’t take an overly smart person to realize that if the law enforcement wanted to do something about the Slums, they would’ve done it already.

Usually, though such unlawful agreements disgusted him, Letho didn’t get too tangled up in it. Regardless of what the fairytales said, one man couldn’t change the world, especially if those on top of the hierarchal ladder were corrupt. However, that didn’t mean that he couldn’t put the chink or two in the armor of lawlessness from time to time. That was why he was in the Slums today. Cornelia Arnera, a widow that lived in Willowtown that Letho considered home for a while now, reported her daughter missing. Apparently, the lass was kidnapped by one of the mercenary groups that passed through Willowtown recently and taken to Radasanth. Usually, the Marshal notified the City Watch about such issues, but the widow begged him to do the search on his own. “Nothing but clotheshorses and criminals up in Radasanth,” she said to him, and he couldn’t exactly disagree. So he decided to investigate.

He hit the local gathering places of scoundrels and lowlifes, taverns, whorehouses, casinos, the works. The answer awaited him in the Saddle Ablaze - an inn whose waitresses doubled as exotic dancers and whose clientele had deeper pockets – and it wasn’t the one he expected. Carmen, Cornelia’s daughter, wasn’t kidnapped. She eloped with one of the mercs, went to the big city and got a job as a dancer. “I’m following my dream, Marshal,” she said to him once he managed to get a word with her. Letho wasn’t sure what kind of a person dreamed of living in the Slums and working in her undergarment, but she was sixteen and he was old. Their minds worked on completely different wave lengths.

The Marshal left Saddle Ablaze with a thoughtful expression, knowing his job wasn’t done yet. He still had to break the news to the mourning mother and the truth was bound to be an insult to injury to the lonely woman. But before he even started his deliberation, a young man came veering around the corner of the inn, running as if his heels were on fire. With his eyes focused on a pair of pursuers, the hooded youth came straight at Letho, leaving him barely enough time to pull his foot back and prepare for an impact. The result was predictable; the stable Marshal sustained the collision while the brown-haired teen fell on the ground, staring upwards with fright in his eyes. Letho expected him to regain his bearings, to get up and keep running; that was what cutpurses usually did and the fallen kid seemed to fit the profile. But instead the boy uttered a single world. He asked for help.

“Don’t you listen to anything that boy says,” one of the pursuers said, breathing heavily as he approached. He would’ve been a lanky man, but his slightly hunched posture made him look shorter then he really was. His blue eyes spoke experience, and the rest of his benighted attire spoke of which profession he was experienced at. If the kid was a pickpocket, this man was a murderer. A smooth talker as well. “He stole something of ours. Good thing you decked him.”

Letho measured the man, his slightly more muscular comrade, then the boy at his feet, and his gut became queasy the way it always did when something was amiss. Two out of three looked like they stole something and the young lad wasn’t one of those two. There was something in his eyes, in his face, something that made it clear that he wasn’t one of the Slums urchins. The thin man with a callous face made a move to pick the lad up by the hood of his cloak. Letho’s hand caught his by the wrist before he got a chance to do so.

“Hold on,” the Marshal spoke, his voice intimidating, rough, in tune with the incisive pair of eyes that cut through the flimsy mask the man put on. “What did he steal from you?”

The shady man shot him with a frowned look, surprised by the grip on his forearm. “Tis none of yer business, friend,” the stronger half of the tandem responded, placing a hand on the sword on his hip. His comrade struggled with Letho’s steely grasp for several seconds before backing off. His hand disappeared in the sleeves of his oversized coat.

“Yeah, you better scuttle off, stranger. You don’t know what you’re dealing with here,” the first one again, his twitchy fingers still hidden in the shadow of his large sleeves.

“Perhaps I don’t, but it looks like a lot like scum trying to rough up a young man for no apparent reason,” the Marshal responded, unflinching, his arms folding before his ample chest. “Do correct me if I’m wrong.”

“Oh, somebody likes to play a hero,” the round-shouldered varlet said, grinning. “We love heroes. We don’t need to tie a rock to their feet when we toss them into the river. All that armor takes them right to the bottom.”

Letho sniggered. He knew these types of knaves, the overblown, king-of-the-street types that all thought they were the best thief ever just because they had a trick or two up their sleeve. He wasn’t a real murderer. Storm Veritas was a genuine killer, the beast that did the deed and gloated afterwards. Compared to the infamous mage, this man was a greenhorn.

That was why, even before he made his move, Letho knew what’s going to happen. With a flick of the wrist, the dagger came flying from the shadow of the man’s sleeve, flashing in the morning sun as it came darting toward the Marshal’s bearded face. But Letho’s gauntleted left was faster, making a sweeping motion and swatting the dagger away like an annoying bug. Seeing his comrade fail, the less talkative part of the duo made his move, but before his hands even unsheathed the blade, the bulky ranger retrieved his bastard sword. The glorious adamantine blade moved fluidly, its sheen making its move a blur as it went for the scoundrel’s neck. Letho stopped it an inch above the man’s shoulder.

“Don’t do that. Swords make me nervous,” the Marshal spoke, his blade, his eyes and his posture unwavering. “Now, you two better... scuttle off. It’s too early for blood-spilling.”

Though the man who had death breathing next to his neck agreed with Letho’s words, his comrade didn’t seem to concur. His hands once again sunk into his sleeves, but before his fingers fished for another dagger, his glare clashed with that of the Marshal once again. And regardless of how stubborn he was, regardless of how much his pride insisted on teaching this cocky bastard whose turf this is, the relentless determination in the eyes of his opponent was stronger, overwhelming. And he realized that if he didn’t back away, he and his friend would probably die on this morning.

“Fine,” his voice said and his hands confirmed by appearing at the end of his sleeves. “But this ain’t over. You don’t know who you’re messing with.”

With a final look that was supposed to look threatening but really wasn’t, the lanky rogue pulled his partner by the shoulder and walked away as if he had overdue business elsewhere. Letho sighed, returning the bastard sword back into the scabbards on his back. “Well, that was tense,” he said with a barely noticeable smirk on his hard face, turning towards the lad that was the root of everything that unfolded. “You look like you could use a drink, kid. Come on, you can tell me what the fuss is all about over a pint.”

[Farmboy]

For the first time in many, many hours, Braden felt safe. The mysterious stranger had defended him, stood up for him against the Syndicate's thugs. Braden would be eternally grateful. The man offered him a hand and raised him to his feet. When standing shoulder-to-shoulder, the man stood an inch or two taller than Braden, and somehow that comforted him. The man's height, size and actions seemed to relax Braden in way he had never felt before. A guardian angel, fending off every foe with a great sweep of white translucent wings. He could have melted, then and there; such was his state of relaxation.

Slowly and softly the man guided him along. Only then did Braden notice the spectators that had gathered around to watch the show. In this part of the city brutality, blood and mayhem were the main attractions and every citizen somehow had a part in the show. Some whispered to each other, commenting on the man's great show of skill with a blade. Others backed away slowly as the pair came near them, and the rest simply walked away. The show was over, and they had to continue on with their lives. Though Braden hardly considered what these people were doing to be 'living'.

Quick moments passed and they were passing through the doors to the Saddle Ablaze, another local tavern that housed the scum of Radasanth as a daily ritual. Once inside, the atmosphere changed abruptly. Half-naked women danced on poles and served the customers while the customers themselves, mainly men, sat back and watched. The theme of the room seemed to be lust and passion, since most of the colors in the place were warm colors: red, orange and yellow. Even the lanterns were given a warn hue to better set the mood. Whether that had any relevance with the name of the tavern, Braden did not know.

For some reason, being in a place such as this left Braden with a feeling of being dirty. No matter how hard he tried, he could not pry his eyes from the women doing their jobs. He was surprised that an establishment in the slums had such top-notch women. Many of them were voluptuous, big-breasted with slender bodies. They danced with such grace that left Braden turning his head in almost every direction imaginable. The women were diverse also; blondes, brunettes, redheads and raven haired; some were black, some were white, and some seemed an almost almond color.

Braden spent many minutes inspecting the tavern, there was a bar, many separate tables where the women danced and somehow took the men's orders at the same time, and then there was the rooms themselves. A stair on the far side of the door led up to the rooms, which lined the main area like a balcony. While looking up at the rooms Braden saw women walking out silently with a coin purse in hand, anxiously counting every coin. It looked like if the customer was rich enough, he could get a little more than alcohol and a show.

Braden walked with his savior to a separate table, and sat down. After a few minutes they were greeted by their 'waitress'. With fiery red hair, an almost athletic body and large breasts, Braden could tell immediately that the woman must have been one of the tavern's best. She rose onto the table and began to do some standard maneuvers about the steel pole. She spun around slowly descending towards the table. She landed softly on her rear end, one leg bent around the pole, the other rested on Braden's left shoulder. The dancer eyed Braden with a passion, and Braden noticed she had the most beautiful blue eyes he had ever seen. They were such a contrast from her fiery appearance that Braden began to wonder he had not noticed them until now.

"Hey there handsome," the angel finally spoke. "What can I do ye for?"

Braden swallowed hard and took a quick glance at his guardian. Braden did not know what to say. He had "seen" a woman before, but not one as strikingly gorgeous as the one sitting before him now. He took a few moments to build up his courage until finally saying, "Just water, please."

The young man could not help but notice that his voice had cracked.

((The redhead is my gift to you Letho. Enjoy. :D))

[Letho]

Even though he walked out of the Saddle Ablaze mere moments ago, Letho’s return to the shameless tavern went almost unnoticed. This wasn’t a surprise; most entrances went unheeded here, regardless of who entered, how many times and what happened outside those doors. People came here to detach themselves from the toil of the Slums and women seductively prancing around in their undergarments were the perfect distraction from any concern. Carmen was the only one who noted that the big bad Marshal returned, but the fear in her eyes – the fear that he would drag her back to Willowtown – diminished when she saw that Letho had no interest in arguing with her anymore.

Truth be told, the only reason why Letho led the way into this particular tavern was because it was probably the only place in the Slums where the proprietors didn’t hate the law from the bottom of their charcoaled hearts. Lady Aisha – who probably wasn’t much of a lady given the fact that she ran a puffed up whorehouse – made it clear that she didn’t give a damn who had fun with her girls as long as everybody was having fun. And paid the price, of course. Those who went against those simple rules got to meet the best bouncers that you could buy in the Slums. The lucky ones got out of those encounters crippled. Most customers, however, recognized and welcomed the fact that Saddle Ablaze was somewhat of a neutral ground. That was why, after the little run-in with the ruffians, it seemed like a good shelter for Letho and the boy he saved.

The rescued youth, however, seemed completely overwhelmed by the place. His eyes were wandering from one sight to the next and the Marshal couldn’t really blame him. He was young, his hormones were probably going haywire and there was something for eyes to feast on in every corner of the main room. Still, it was almost humorous to see the struggle in the teenager, where his coyness and decency clashed with the natural curiosity. It culminated when they finally found a free table and their entertainment arrived. The redhead was an eye-candy, but then again, pretty much every girl in this establishment was incarnated seduction. The buxom dancer ascended to their table, flexing and bending and swirling around the polished pole in the manner that would make a eunuch blush. The boy seemed mesmerized by the scene, especially once the girl spoke to him in a voice of a temptress, and barely managed to squeeze out his order.

When the fiery enchantress spun around to face her other customer, she realized that she had a tougher nut to crack with her dancing. Letho’s eyes were unimpressed, locked on her own regardless of how much she shook her behind or how jiggly her breasts were. Not even when she came so close to him when he could feel her breath on his lips and her lavender perfume in his nostrils did the Marshal break his stoic visage. He wasn’t annoyed, he was simply uninterested. Myrhia was everything he wanted, Myrhia was his embodiment of perfection despite the fact that, when it comes to curvature, Myrhia was vastly inferior to this woman that did her best to turn him on.

“Why the long face, Marshal?” she purred, her right leg twisted around the pole as she leant towards the bearded man, displaying all the glory of her cleavage. “Perhaps there’s something I can do for ye. Like let ye cuff me to the bed.”

Her wink was enough to thaw an iceberg and it seemed successful even on an old grouch such as Letho, eliciting a smirk on his face. His hands slipped out of his gauntlets before reaching towards her and wrapping themselves around her hand. His fingers pressed a fine stack of golden coins into her palm. “Sure you can. Get us a glass of wine and a glass of water and then go shake your behind someplace else. We have things to discuss.”

Disappointment swept over the face of the exotic dancer, the soft lines of her powdered face crinkling into a frown as she plumped from the table surface. However, once she noticed the amount of currency that Letho placed into her palm, she found her smile again and it was twice as shiny. “Yes, sir!” she said with a clumsy salute, scuttling towards the bar.

“Quite a sight, eh? These girls will empty out your coin purse and make you thank them for it,” the Marshal said to his recent acquaintance who seemed to be slowly recovering from the initial shock. The boy obviously never visited this place which was another proof that he wasn’t a local and that Letho’s original assumption of his innocence was correct. But the swordsman and his curiosity needed something more concrete, like a confession.

“So, care to tell me why those goons were after you? I’m Letho Ravenheart, by the way,” the muscular ranger said, offering a handshake.

[Farmboy]

Braden nearly burst to tears with laughter; he had never seen such a display of will power before, especially against a temptress such as that. He tried to keep it in, mostly out of respect for the red-head's disastrous -- yet graceful -- failure, and partly because he did not want the girl to snap around at him and punch him square in the face. But the young man had a small inkling of doubt whether the girl would go through with it or not, given the chance. She seemed more of the type to take her revenge coyly, without her enemy expecting it. And that sent shudder up his spine.

She scurried off with the man's coin purse, her joyous gait further accentuating her already amazing figure. After Braden managed to peel his eyes away from the girl's backside, he was met with an outstretched hand and the man's name. Letho Ravenheart, he thought he'd heard that name somewhere before, but he couldn't quite place his finger on it. Another name came to him then, more of a title really, but he heard the girl call him Marshal. Letho was a Marshal of Corone, which meant -- above all else -- he would be able to help him.

Braden quickly took up the handshake and gripped the man's calloused hand as hard as he could. A firm handshake makes a good first impression, or at least, that's what Father used to tell him. "Braden Larn," he replied with a smile. "It's very nice to meet you." Hopefully, with Letho's help, he could rescue his sister, and if the chance arose, avenge his father's death. He imprinted the thought firmly in his mind; his sister was his top priority, he would not sacrifice her for the sake of vengeance.

His smile slowly faded after their hands parted and his tone became a somber one. He was about to drudge up memories all too fresh in his mind, and quite frankly, would rather forget. "Those men," he began slowly, making sure he could take the emotional strain, "they were after me because of my father. From what I could gather, he had yet to payback a hefty sum from the Syndicate; money they loaned him for our family. But when he didn't pay them back as soon as they wanted...they sent two men to..." He felt himself lock up. He fought back the tears. He would not let them come, not now, now in front of Letho and all the other patrons of Saddle Ablaze.

He took a few moments to regain his composure, and let the pain numb his despair. "They killed my father and my mother," venom dripped from his voice, ice hardened his eyes, "and now they have my sister. I must get her back, whatever the costs; I must not let her slip through my fingers." A few moments of silence passed until, rather abruptly, their fiery waitress came back with their drinks.

"Here ye go, boys." She placed a bottle of wine along with a tall glass on Letho's side, and left a jug of water and a mug on Braden's side. Her upbeat personality seemed out of place from the sudden serious turn the conversation had taken. Braden couldn't help but think the orders left on the table were more then they had asked, but the beautiful girl was prompt to explain. "If yer going to be spending so much coin, ye might as well get yer money's worth." She smiled and winked at Braden, and although his mood at the moment was not the happiest, the young man managed a faint smile.

The girl walked off to her next customer and Braden waited a couple moments before continuing. "Please," Braden said with a twinge of sadness, "Sir Letho, will you help me? I do not think I can do this alone." Braden's eyes were trained upon the scruffy marshal, his gaze permeating desperation.

[Letho]

It was same cliché all over again, the same story that always seemed to occur even though it shouldn’t, the same dastardly thing that his favorite phrase described perfectly. Everybody has a sad story nowadays. Letho listened to it and stroked his beard, stroked his beard and listened to another fairytale gone wrong. Braden’s started like any other, with a simple life, and came to an end like any other, with bloodshed. At the center of it was the Syndicate, it seemed. It wasn’t the first time that the Marshal heard about these ‘loans’ they offered to the less fortunate. They always picked those that had the least chance of actually making the deadline, and then, when the deadline passed, the debt went through the roof. If you initially owed a thousand gold pieces, you suddenly had to repay two thousand. And if you failed to meet the next deadline, three thousand. And if you failed again, they took everything you ever had. Just like they did to Braden’s family.

“I see,” Letho finally said, uncorking the wine and pouring the liquid into the glass. He didn’t take a sip, however, but rather slid the glass over to the other side of the table. “I think you need this more then I do.”

The Marshal couldn’t exactly say that he fully understood Braden’s situation. While he too lost his parents once upon a time, it was a different set of circumstances that robbed him of his family. They went out in the blaze of glory, defending their own kingdom, Savion, and he as a former prince never really knew what it meant to lack the money to provide the basic necessities for your family. His story was one of thousands of swords and epic battles; Braden’s was far more mundane. It involved a knife in the dark and a cold murder for a fistful of shinnies. The pain was the same though. He could see it on the boy’s face despite the attempts to prevent them from manifesting. He could hear it in the acrimony of his voice. He could feel it in the desperate glance of his eyes. There was anger there, and resolve, but not without fear and desperation. At that moment Braden had the eyes of a man that stood at the edge of the cliff and took a step over the ledge.

Letho’s fingers continued stroking the neatly trimmed beard. “You’re right; you can’t do this alone. Hell, no-one could do this alone. If you’re right and Syndicate is behind it, you’re going to need more then a pair of swords and good intentions to rescue your sister,” the Marshal spoke, keeping his voice down a notch. While the walls didn’t have ears, there were plenty of ears between those walls that owed their allegiance to the Syndicate. Taking Braden’s mug, Letho poured the water out into a spitter and replaced it with some wine. Around them, Saddle Abalaze was inconsiderate toward the gravity of their conversation. Sparkly and glittery, it continued in the same shameless manner it usually did.

“I don’t suppose you reported this to the authorities already?” the muscular swordsman asked, taking a sip of the wine. It was a decent vintage, dry and strong, perhaps a bit too cold. He let it breathe and reach room temperature. The question was a bit redundant though. The Radasanth Guard kept their noses out of the Slums most of the time and in return the Syndicate minimized their ‘operations’ in other parts of the city. Even if Braden contacted them, they would’ve probably just jotted down the report, told him they would look into it, and then filed the report under “L” for “lost cause”. Bureaucracy was a pretty nifty thing if you wanted to put your feet up on the table.

“Well, I have some friends in the Radasanth Guard. Most of the guards here are as corrupt and rotten as their teeth, but there are some that are actually worth at least as much as the equipment they carry. I figure it doesn’t hurt to ask for some help,” Letho spoke, swirling the wine uninterestingly, lethargically, before drinking it down slowly. “Come on, drink up. The barracks are just a couple of furlongs away.”

By the time the Marshal got up to his feet, the redheaded exotic dancer pranced back to their table, her smile on like an ornament. It was her job, after all, to make sure the customers stay as long as possible, to keep them sitting and drinking and ogling and squandering their money in the process. But once again her semi-artificial sweetness broke against his rigor. “Leaving us so soon?” she chirped, butting Letho gently with her behind. “I’ll start to think our service isn’t good enough.”

“It was fine. But business comes before pleasure.”

“Always the killjoy,” she said, firing a tempting wink towards Braden before adding: “Well, I hope ye come back to us soon.”

Letho didn’t mean to. In fact he was pretty damn certain that Myrhia would have a thing or three to say about his presence here so far. She would furrow her little brow and look at him with those emerald eyes from which there was no running, and she would extract the truth from him. But what Myrhia didn’t know, couldn’t hurt her pretty little head. Stuffing his hands back into his gauntlets, Letho nodded towards the scandalous waitresses before shouldering his way through the batwing doors and back into the streets of the Slums.

[Farmboy]

Braden stared blankly at the glass of wine as it was slowly slid towards him; the burgundy liquid rippled, and at that moment, it reminded the young man of blood. Almost instantaneously his mind thought of his parents, long dead. Or at least, it felt long. The concept of time was lost on Braden since those tragic events. He would become so wrapped in himself and his agony that he had no way to tell if hours had passed, or seconds. All he knew, all he needed to know, was that they were gone, and when that feeling came upon him, his apathetic nature burrowed deep. He no longer cared for anything in the world; death, violence, it all seemed such frivolous things not worthy of his time or attention. He'd much rather sit and stew in his own self-loathing then turn to face the problems of the real world.

Luckily for him, his guardian angel was there to pull him out of himself. He was brought back by Letho's words; his affirmation to help Braden with his seemingly lost cause. He spoke, and Braden listened. The more his thoughts began to turn back to his parents, the more he thought the glass of wine looked rather friendly. Braden had never ingested alcohol of any sorts, but after the night he had just had, he thought it appropriate to start. He picked up the cool glass in his shaky grasp and hesitated before lifting it to his lips.

He took a small swig and sat for a few moments to inspect the liquid. It left an odd taste in his mouth -- nice, but odd. A sour after effect that left him smacking his lips while squinting his eyes. But after giving the impression some time to settle, he decided he liked it. He took another drink, this one much larger than his first, and set the glass down on the table, his fingers still wrapped around the drink.

Letho asked him a question but Braden did not have the heart to reply. The young man knew he would come to the answer on his own whether or not he decided to interject. Then he began to speak of connections he had within the Radasanth Guard, and that piqued Braden's interest. It seemed Letho would not only help, but he would recruit more to their cause! The Marshal encouraged him to finish his drink before they left, and Braden happily obliged. He took some hints from Letho's own way of drinking the dark liquid; swirling it slowly in the glass, taking your time with drinking it, Braden even had the impulse to raise the glass to his nostrils and partake in the aroma. He was surprised to find that the mixed sensation of both the taste and smell gave the wine a richer quality.

After finishing their wine, they both rose to their feet. Braden felt dizzy all of a sudden, not enough to bring him back to his seat, but definitely enough to take notice of. They both gathered their things, placing their equipment in their respective places. As if it were a queue, the fiery temptress came trotting back, no doubt going to try to keep them in their seats. She and Letho exchanged words, the redheaded beauty used her body to sway Letho and Braden into staying, and Letho stoically halted her advances.

She winked at Braden, to which he blushed and smiled. Letho began to leave, and Braden followed, leaving the interesting experience he had at the Saddle Ablaze where it belonged: in his memories.

They walked back into the gray, dismal life of the Slums. Braden was surprised at how quickly he had forgotten the horrors that took place there. A pretty face and a glass of alcohol could do that to a man. He stayed as close to Letho as he could. He did not want to have come all this way for nothing, to lose his only chance to save his sister because of a moment of emboldenment. Braden knew that Letho's intervention would not stop the Syndicate from hunting him, but it would make them think twice before attacking them out in the open.

They walked in silence for a while, letting the surroundings dissolve as they made there way out of the Slums. Braden began to breathe more easily, and glanced behind him less and less. He knew the Syndicate to be bold, but they were not that bold. They would not dare attack outside of their territory, for fear that the unstable agreement between them and the Guard would be shattered. So the young man loosened up, allowed himself to be at ease for a time.

He hadn't been in Radasanth that many times, so he let the Marshal lead the way. When looking at the dark-haired man, he found himself lacking things to say. He had hoped he would be able to forge a friendship with him, an ally for the future. Braden knew not what matters awaited him beyond his sister's rescue, but it would help to have someone to trust. He delved deep in his mind, looking for anything to say to the man. Then it dawned on him, the perfect question. Braden waited a few moments before speaking, then cleared his throat.

"So, Sir Letho," he began, "these men you plan to enlist, they can be trusted?" Braden heard the hidden accusation among his words and moved quickly to correct himself. "Of course, I believe your words, and the weight they carry but, these men -- and I don't mean to question their worth, but I need more than words. If I am to lay my life -- as well as my sister's life -- in their hands, then I must be sure." Braden cringed at his own comment, hoping it would not entice his companion into leaving.

[Letho]

‘Trust’ was one of the words that Letho held in rather high regard. Unlike the vast majority of people that threw it around like spare change, ignorant to its significance, the Marshal spoke of trust only when he truly found a trustworthy person. There were no layers of trust, no different types; you couldn’t trust somebody a little or temporarily or sporadically. You either did or you didn’t, it was as simple as that for him. Perhaps such a rigorous approach was the reason why so few ever managed to earn Letho’s trust. Most of the people that he trusted shed either their blood or their tears with him. Some, like Myrhia, shed both and on more then just one inauspicious occasion. None of the Radasanth sentries did the same, though. None save one.

“Words are all that I can offer you. Trust is something you’ll have to find by yourself,” Letho’s voice rumbled, strict and apposite as usual. Seeing that his response was perhaps somewhat cryptic, an elaboration followed. “I don’t trust the Guard and I don’t plan to enlist their members. I trust their commander though, and I know he’s a good man. An honorable man. And as such, he probably has a handful of good men he trusts. But these are all just words and assumptions. In the end, you just have to decide whether to take a chance or not.”

It came off sounding too much like a lesson even though Letho definitely didn’t want to sound patronizing, but it was the truth. Braden wanted insurance and the swordsman couldn’t give him any; there were none when it came to these chancy points in life. He couldn’t tell him that everything was going to be alright, that they would save his sister, avenge his parents and iron out all the creases. Not unless he wanted to lie to the lad. The best that he could do was opening a few doors and let him choose from the options that lay beyond.

The general state of their surroundings seemed to be improving gradually as they walked through the streets. Rundown shacks and uneven cobbles started to lose ground to solid stone buildings and neatly paved streets. It was still a far cry from the majesty of the Government District, but even though there were no visible boundaries, it soon became clear that they were leaving the Slums and all its grime behind their backs. The Bazaar District was considerably more urbane, all of its streets eventually leading to the busy center - the bustling marketplace with thousands upon thousand of awnings and greedy hawkers. A little higher up the ladder were the real merchants, the kind that was too good for the heat of the marketplace, but not good enough to be considered royalty. They set their shops in the surrounding buildings, displaying their goods behind large glass windows that just screamed to be broken. Which street urchins often did, if for no other reason, then to see glass shatter and some fat merchant try and fail to catch them as they scurried through the crowd.

Letho didn’t lead the way towards the jam-packed center of the District however. Instead he took a few turns, evading most of the mass that seemed to move like a steady river, moving through the shaded back alleys and all their unkemptness. And before long, the pair stood before a rather impressive building. The Headquarters of the Radasanth Guard were almost a fortress that rudely towered above the surrounding buildings. Its walls were tall and thick, made of unhewn stone and rising taller then any building in the district. And that was not counting the watchtowers that stood above the crown of the fortifications, manned at all times by CAF sentinels. The main gates were open – as they always were when there were no wars or riots quaking the realm – the portcullis raised, and only a quad of halberdiers stood watch over the entrance. They were standing rather leisurely, leant on the shafts of their weapons and debating something amongst themselves, when Letho approached. Once they noticed them, their posture snapped back to being more soldierly, just like their voices.

“Halt! Identify yourself and state your business here,” one of the guards demanded, looking a lot like the other three in his shiny scale mail and plumed helmet.

“I am Marshal Letho Ravenheart and I’m here to see your commander, Captain Festian,” the Marshal responded with authority, pulling on the collar of his coat and revealing the badge of the Mounted Ranger that was fastened to his dark green shirt. Neither of the four really looked at the badge. They knew the name and now that they connected it to the brooding bearded face and keen eyes, they found themselves inadequate to retort. . “Now, if one of you would be so kind to run along and tell him I’m here.”

One of the four – the youngest judging by the sound of his almost stuttering voice – spoke next, lowering his halberd. “F-Follow me, Marshal.”

The lad led the way through the busy courtyard, where one of the veteran drill sergeants held a lesson on spear-handling, beating some poor recruit with the blunt end of his weapon and explaining to the rest what was done wrong. Farther ahead, a squad of crossbowmen was firing salvo after salvo of bolts at a line of straw men, working on their synchronization. They still had quite a lot to work, Letho ascertained. Most didn’t notice the Marshal and his companion as they were escorted to the two-storey building in the center, which had the blue Sword Hand banner fluttering above it.

The interior of the headquarters differed in nothing since the last time the swordsman visited. Same old obtuse beige color adorned the nondescript walls, same old polished marble stretched across the floor, same old starchy staff lazed about, acknowledging him with eyes that asked questions but were indifferent towards the answers. Even though Letho knew the way to the captain’s office, the soldier led the way through frigid halls, his heavy army boots clicking and clanking as if there was a heavyset man walking.

“Major Festian is in his office,” the guard said, saluting the swordsman with naught but a nod before he made his way back to his post.

“Major?” Letho thought, pushing the doors inwards without knocking. “Somebody’s been rising up the ranks as of late.”

“Nobody taught you how to knock, Marshal?” an exacting, serene voice spoke before the doors were even properly open. It originated from a rather lean man with a beardless leathery face calloused by at least forty summers and winters. The flattop brown hair of the man seemed to be losing ground to the emerging gray threads, but if there was ever doubt in the flare of the weathered man, his fierce blue eyes completely obliterated it. Sitting behind his desk covered with neatly arranged paperwork, the major didn’t look so formidable, but once he got up, there was a martial aura emanating from his posture, amplified by the creaseless blue uniform.

“I’ll learn how to knock when you learn how to welcome a friend,” Letho retorted, keeping a straight face just like the man on the other side of the table. Neither expression seemed to yield for several seconds, but then the major spoke again, and allowed a smirk to break his rigorous expression.

“Last time I greeted you as a friend, Letho Ravenheart, we wound up at each other throats, jumping through windows, falling through shed roofs...” He extended a hand and Letho took it firmly, returning the grin at the memory of their little skirmish. “Ah, the good old days.”

“Indeed. You seem to be doing well nowadays as well. I see another stripe on your shoulder,” the Marshal said, taking a seat on one of the simple, wooden chairs that stood before the table.

“Well, unfortunately somebody thinks I’m doing a good job. So now I have even more men to command and more paperwork to handle. And, of course, less time to do it. All in the job description,” Leeahn said, his voice revealing neither frustration nor enthusiasm as he sat back into his rather plain chair. “So what brings you here? And who’s your young friend? Please don’t tell me he’s your apprentice. Corone couldn’t handle another barbaric bludgeoner.”

“You didn’t say that when I caught those slavers for you. But no, he’s not an apprentice. Just a lad that got shortchanged by the Syndicate. But I think it’s better that he tells you his own story.”

((Alright, feel free to rp Leeahn asking you questions and stuff. He’ll eventually going to ask you how old Braden’s sister and is she pretty, because Syndicate usually makes pretty girls that are of age to work the streets. Other then that, just rp him any way you want to as long as he stays in character.))

[Farmboy]

Braden was uncomfortable in the Major's office. He felt out of place among all the reminiscing and comradery between the two soldiers. The referances of days long passed and the subtle jokes reminded him of Daran, who he missed severely. He wondered how the mischief-maker faired without him. Daran was the brother Braden never had. When looking at the two men, he could see the differences between them. But he could also see the bond, forcibly forged through hardship, that linked them together. It seemed the old saying rang true, opposites do attract.

"So," Leeahn began, his fierce blue eyes trained upon Braden, "does this friend of yours have a name Letho?" A crack formed on the Major's hard lips, notifiying to all that did not already know, that he was playing with the youngster.

"Braden Larn, sir." Braden replied immediately. His father had taught him to show respect to those in authority, even if you did not like them. He knew the Major would be someone he could come to respect and even like, but he was nervous nonetheless.

"Take a seat Braden." The Major motioned to the wooden chair opposite Letho. When he sat, the wood made a soft creaking. Leeahn paid it no mind. "And please, forget the title, we are all men here. Besides, I feel like an old man enough as it is." He smiled softly and light creases outlined the sides of his mouth. His leathery face, clean shaven chin and slowly graying hair reminded Braden heavily of Father, and he could not help but stare in awe, if only for a moment.

"I didn't mean to make you feel old, sir," Braden interjected quickly. He slightly winced at calling him 'sir' once again. The Major acted as if he didn't notice.

"I know you didn't," Leeahn replied. "I'm just trying to lighten the mood. You seem a bit fidgety. My name is Leeahn, by the way. Or Festian, whichever suits you." He paused a few moments and continued, "What is it you need help with, Braden?"

"My sister, sir -- I mean, Leeahn." Braden smiled awkwardly and pressed on, "She was taken by an agent of the Syndicate. Her name is Josie. I thought I could save her myself, but it proved harder than I realized." Braden lowered his head and glanced sidelong to Letho. "Thankfully, Letho was there to save me from their thugs."

Leeahn wore a small grin and replied, "The Marshal has a habit of doing such things." He tossed a quick wink towards Letho and returned his focus to Braden. "This agent, did you happen to hear his name?" Braden nodded.

"His name was Grim," Braden retorted, "and his companion was named Teldran. But I..." -- Braden remembered the rage, the blood, and the look in the rogue's fading eyes -- "he's dead." He looked to the Major and noticed a hint of recognition in his wise eyes. Braden could tell the man knew a thing or two about death.

Leeahn merely nodded and did not press the matter. "And your sister, Josie, you know where she is being held?"

"It is my belief that she is being held in the Barrel of Monkeys, a tavern in the slums." The Major nodded as if he knew the place. "But I am not certain." That was the end of Braden's story thus far, and the fact that he had explained it so simply disgusted him. He thought it was more complicated than that. But, he realized, almost everything can be so simple when emotions are no longer a factor.

"How old is your sister?" Leeahn asked.

"Eleven," Braden responded somberly. Leeahn shook his head and let out a soft sigh.

"So young." He swallowed hard and recollected himself. "And is she beautiful?" Braden looked at the Major awkwardly. He could not see how that mattered to the situation.

"Excuse me?" Braden retorted hardly.

"The Syndicate not only sells girls to slavers," Leeahn explained slowly. "They also hand-pick from their cells the most beautiful girls and put them to work on the streets, doing gods-awful things." Instantly Braden remembered the girls he had seen on street corners and in alleyways when he came to the city with Father. None of them could have been a day older than fifteen.

Braden's face twisted with disgust. "I cannot let that happen to Josie." He looked sternly to Leeahn and waited for an answer.

Leeahn wore a thoughtful expression. His hand was raised to his chin, gently stroking the smooth skin as he considered his next thoughts carefully. He let in a slow, deep breath and rose from his chair. He walked to the window, which sat a pace to his right, and exhaled. He looked into the sky with eyes that mirrored its exuberance and spoke his next thoughts carefully. "I am not one to beat around the bush, but I will warn you. There is good news, and there is bad news." He turned slowly and looked to Braden.

"Bad news first," he replied. He would rather face it now, than face it later.

"This operation will take a day and a half to prepare," The Major said bluntly. "The risks are high, both for yourselves and all of Radasanth." Braden knew he spoke of the uneasy peace between the Guard and the Syndicate. "I doubt my superiors will be pleased to hear this." Braden once heard from an old man a couple farms over from his own, that when the uneasy peace had started, one of the operations that the Guard would not tolerate was human trafficking. "There is also a possibility that the Syndicate will have dealt with Josie by then."

Braden understood completely. It was a risk he would have to take. Him and Letho would not be able to do it alone. He had no other choice.

"And the good news?" he quickly changed the subject.

Leeahn nodded at the young teen's committment. "We have someone that has been working inside the Syndicate. He and a few others will be able to assist you. There is also a safehouse that you are welcome to use while you are waiting." Braden visibly slumped.

"You will not be joining us?" Braden had hoped the experienced Major would be willing to lend his sword.

"I am afraid not," Leeahn said sadly. "I have other matters that need my immediate attention, I am sorry." Leeahn continued, "But you will be in good and able hands, you have my word." Braden nodded.

Leeahn sat down at his desk and wrote out everything Braden had just told him. After signing and sealing the order, he called for a guard. The guard came in swiftly, his armor clanking, boots thudding and plumed feather swaying in the air. He halted just beside the desk, saluted and stood at attention.

"Escort these people to Corporal Avakian, and give him this." Leeahn handed the guard the order and quickly said, "Wait outside." The guard took the order, saluted again -- this time it was much more rigid and speedy -- and briskly left the Major's office. As soon as the guard closed the door Leeahn retook his calm demeanor and looked to Letho and Braden with a wry grin. "I have always took a small amount of pleasure ordering people around."

Braden laughed softly and rose from his chair. "It has been a pleasure meeting you, Leeahn. And thank you."

"Thank me not," Leeahn replied, "the pleasure was all mine. Letho," he said as he turned to the large ranger, "don't be a stranger." He extended his hand out to shake.

As they left, Letho leading, Braden thought of how they would free his sister from the Syndicate's hold. He knew it would not be easy, and he knew that blood would be spilled. The only thing he did not know, was whether or not this Corporal Avakian was going to be the help he needed. For his sister's sake, he hoped so.

((I will take the next post too. I just didn't have time to finish this one.))

[Farmboy]

They moved at a swift pace through the winding halls. Braden followed the guard diligently, with Letho to his left. The young man kept his eyes on the polished marble floors as they walked, seeing almost every detail in the floor's reflection. He looked at himself in the reflection and he was shocked to see his face. He was filthy, caked in dirt and his hair lay haphazardly on his skull. He guessed having a night of tragedy would make anyone forget about vanity. The young man made a mental note to clean himself up when he had the chance. Braden inspected the rest of the reflection, the beige walls, the images of the guard and Letho, the ceiling --

-- There was something on the ceiling! Braden visibly stiffened as he walked. The creature, masked in darkness, had yellow eyes glowing as brightly as the sun, and they followed his every movement. The creature moved like a lizard, crawling the ceiling quickly every few paces. It bled shadows, oozing off of its slimy form like a hazy mist. No features adorned the creature's bald head, but its mouth, as it slowly opened, was full of rows of black razor teeth. It continued to open -- now the size of a watermelon -- and it slowly prepared itself for something. Braden looked closer and noticed the stance. It was ready to pounce. It sprang from its perch and a high-pitched scream resonated inside Braden's head.

The young man yelled and ducked, all the while turning his gaze quickly to the ceiling. But nothing was there, just the wooden beams and dust. He looked to the marble floor -- nothing. Braden quickly recomposed himself, wondering what in the hells that thing was, and why it was no where to be found. Then he realized that Midnight was pulsing on his back. The slow rhythm flowed into his form and Braden was reminded of a heartbeat, faint but there.

"Are you alright?" The guard asked hesitantly a few paces ahead of them. It seemed he was so caught up in his walking that he was barely fazed by the young man's scream and did not stop until the sound registered in his brain a few moments later.

Braden swallowed hard and cleared his throat. "Y-Yes, I'm fine," he lied, "I thought I saw…something." He straightened his pack and clothes and glanced awkwardly at Letho and the guard. He wondered if the traumatizing events of the night before had left him insane. But to himself, he felt completely fine. He lightly scoffed at himself; the insane never think they're insane.

"Let us continue on, then," the guard replied and restarted his march. Braden followed.

Minutes later, they arrived at a darkwood door, reinforced with steel ingots and bars. A small plaque on the door, with gold plating that was slowly chipping, was engraved with a message that read, Knock before entry. The guard knocked roughly on the door with his gauntlet and awaited an answer,

"Just a moment," an elderly voice rose from the other side. "My bones are not as sturdy as they used to be." A soft smacking accompanied the old man's walk and the door slowly creaked opened to a small room filled with dim light and an odd odor. There stood a hunched stocky old man holding a cane. Faded blue robes hung from his form. Light brown spots of varying sizes speckled his wrinkled face and hands. "May I help you?" The elderly man's voice was like poorly-oiled leather, cracking at every other movement.

The guard presented the envelope that was entrusted to him and replied, "An order from Major Festian for Corporal Avakian." He handed the letter over and stood at ease.

The old man's eyes lit up with life and he stood up straight as he eyed the sealed envelope and stuck his cane underneath his arm. "A mission?" the old man said, his voice no longer cracking. "I am truly surprised the Major would pull Arem from his post." Braden eyed the old man with surprise. The old man looked up from the letter and suddenly remembered the situation.

"Oh, forgive me." The dimly lit room slowly melted and gave way to a bright open skied training ground, where no more than five men went about different exercises. The training ground was small, but considering the number of men training, more than enough room. Braden looked back to the old man to see that he was not an old man at all, but a red-haired, brown-eyed man who had seen no less than thirty winters. The only thing that had remained the same about the man was his faded blue robes.

He looked to the guard and said, "You are excused." After the guard saluted and made his way back, the man said finally, "I will take you to Arem. Come." The man's voice was forceful, so much so that Braden did not even want to follow the man, just out of spite. But he would not let his foolish pride get in the way. He resisted the urge and followed the man anyway.