The Whan-Kher tavern was situated at the heart of Stonevale, pushed into a dark corner of the one of many filthy alleyways comprised the innards of the township. It was a crooked, quaint and almost decrepit sort of building, barely propped up by its cracked limestone walls and protected from the elements by a sorry excuse for a brittle slate roof, one that looked as if it had been held together with tape and spit. Almost any time someone slammed the heavy front door, fragments of splintered shale tile would rain down over the pavement and pepper the vermin scurrying in the gutter below. Despite its apparent architectural poverty, the tavern still boasted a healthy turn out. Through the grimy windows, a handful of oil lanterns burned brightly and the even in the early afternoon shadows of patrons jigged merrily about against the inner walls. Myriads of conversations crept through the crevices of the doors, catching the ears of those passing by. These types of back alley inns, traditionally, tended to play host to all sorts of rough, mysterious types.

That was exactly the reason he was here.

Shinsou Vaan Osiris had been there a whole night, and hated it already, but it was located far enough from Tylmerande, the Brotherhood and gun toting assassins to merit staying in whilst he investigated a niggle at the edge of his senses. At least that’s what he had thought, before he had once again found himself the butt of some cosmic joke. This time, all he had done was leave his room and come downstairs to pay his tab. In the two minutes he had been waiting to be attended to at the bar, someone had recognized him as the co-leader of the Brotherhood and had taken exception to his existence.

Shinsou, with golden eyes locked firmly on his prey, held the edge of Enpera steadily against the throat of the stubby gentleman standing in front of him and, for the final time, challenged the man to move out of his way.

“Last chance, dickhead. Move.”

Before the short, stubble beareded man said a word, his friend decided to clear up any misunderstanding about the reputation of the place Shinsou was in. A wooden bar stool suddenly found a whole new purpose as it was launched an admirable distance across the bar before colliding with the back of Shinsou’s skull. The Telgradian’s legs folded underneath him, a trickle of blood forking down the back of his pale neck as he fell, and the dwarf went for him. He screamed in Shinsou’s dazed face as he pinned him to the rickety wooden floor, throwing a balled fist into his right cheek. The Telgradian’s head recoiled horribly off the wooden, sticky beer soaked planks that made up the floor.

Everything was fuzzy around the edges. The blow to his head hadn’t done him much good, but Shinsou was still holding his sword, and although he wasn’t in the mood for slaughtering random people the Telgradian wasn’t partial to getting gang beatings either. Deciding actions spoke louder than threats, the bruised Osiris kicked the floor to his left, using the momentum to get onto his side, and log rolled with his miserable mount to his right. With a deft thrust forward, Shinsou’s blade slid neatly between the folds of flesh covering the offender’s kneecaps. The dwarf cried out in horror while Shinsou, bloodied and beaten, challenged the other patrons with a cold stare, his sword still stuck in his victim. They backed off from around him and his new friend slowly.

“I’ll give you something; you have balls, kid. One twist of my wrist and that nasty looking wound isn’t closing anytime soon.” Shinsou announced, gesturing dizzily towards the tip of Enpera. “Now, does anyone else have a problem with me being here?”

The question was met with abject silence as those who had thought about insurrection quickly reconsidered. It took less than twenty seconds for Shinsou to brush himself down, pull his blade out of the dwarf’s leg and get a beer.

It was now half past midday, but the air still seemed bitterly cold for this time of year. Even wrapped in the thick of his trademark white greatcoat and a smattering of uniform underneath, the chill seemed to cut through Shinsou as he sipped his beer. He stood with Arius, his long time advisor and friend, in the recesses of the tavern.

“You can’t even get breakfast without someone baying for your blood. I can already see today is going to be shit.” The wiry, bespectacled man muttered to the Telgradian as he wiped away the froth from his mouth. Signifying a change of subject with a slight drop in tone, he shot Shinsou a sideways glance. “Can you still feel it?”

The Telgradian wiped the dwarf’s blood from the flat to the tip of Enpera with a white rag. It was well known that a sword’s worst enemy was rusting, and it was important that his weapon was well maintained at all times. Shinsou took considerable care to ensure he wasn’t taking any chances with his. Blood had a surprisingly adverse effect on weaker metals. With this in mind carefully sheathed the clean blade into its ivory and marble sheath, neatly lashed to the inside of his greatcoat, and turned to face his friend.

“Yeah,” Shinsou replied, somewhat grumpily, “There’s a ‘special’ in here, somewhere. It’s there, but less focused. Raw, even.”

“Honestly, you need to think of better names,” Arius chortled to himself, lighting a cigarette with a concealed match. “’Specials?’ Might as well call them window lickers. Or threats.”

“Or, more appropriately, ‘persons of interest’” the tone of Shinsou’s response rang heavily with a granulated ambience, “There aren’t many that give off this kind of aura. Hayate was one; Cromwell another. Look how they turned out. I’m yet to be proven wrong about these types; when they find their footing, they grow. They become virtuous, they fall, or they hold the middle ground and become unpredictable.”

Shinsou brushed aside a bang of brown hair and stiffened his arms, straightening his back as he did.

“I just want to make sure that I know where all the pieces on the chess board are at any one time.”