The night was cold and storming outside The Village of Estolad. The rain beat down on the cloak of Kenyari as he walked slowly into the city gates. It was raining so bad that the guards that are normally outside the gate of Estoland were not even out. The storm made a small feeling of something bad to happen. Kenyari stopped as he stood in a ever growing puddle, the water from the rain hitting him like stones and rolling down the side of his cheek sending the cool sensation through his entire body. The rain beat down so hard that when it collided with Kenyari’s two swords the small but keen ringing sound of metal sounded over and over. Kenyari ler out a small sigh as he started walking slowly again.

The city seemed almost a ghost town. Nobody was outside. It looked as if there was nobody in the entire city but kenyari knew it was. The rain was beating too hard for anyone in their right mind to be out there. Of course kenyari was not like normal people. Where others deemed not right or scary Kenyari of course explored it anyway. A loud thunder strike sounded behind him as it sent a small chill up his spine. Him carrying two large metal swords didn’t seem too safe anymore so he decided to go to the nearest open place he could kick his feet up.

Kenyari picked his pace up a little as he headed in the direction of the nearest open place. He saw a small dim light in the distance and decided to head in the direction of that. Kenyari could hear a small bustle of talking and commotion from where the place with the light was. As kenyari neared it the place it sounded as if the volume level rose. He walked through the small swinging doors of the, what looked like a bar. The bar was packed full of people, more than likely because of the storm. Kenyari took his hood off and let his wet hair down as he the people kept talking, laughing, and drinking their drinks as if nobody had even walked into the bar.

Kenyari looked around until he saw an empty table in the back of the bar in a dimly lit corner. He walked over to the table, leaving behind a small wet trail,as he sat down and kicked his feet up on the table. A waitress walked over and handed him a small glass of ale. The waitress winked at him as she muttered a small statement in a small low pitched voice. “It’s on the house” she said smiling as she turned and walked away. Kenyari watched as she left as he nodded his head. “I already like this place” he said to himself as he took a sip of his newly acquired ale. Kenyari laid his head back as the soft sounds of a small band played In the background. Kenyari felt soothed as the music calmed him a bit. Kenyari let out a small yawn as he took another sip of his ale and started dozing off on this stormy night in The Village of Estolad.

Arcan had come to Estolad after the events at Lomedor to just relax. He had his feet on the table with legs crossed and was slowly drinking some ale. The storm outside was brutal and his armour and weapons were still soaked. He had acquired his new armour sometime in Lomedor from a mysterious someone. Whoever sent them seemed to get some action a lot as the plate armour had a killer scar of a crack right through the chest. He was still wondering why the ale was free when someone came up to him. "Can I help you?" Arcan's voice was a bit harsh but his answer was worse. "Yeah,you can help me. Help me kill you." Arcan slightly looked up when he took a punch to the jawbone. Suddenly all the ruckus inside the inn was silenced and all eyes were toward the hunter and the stranger. Arcan laid down his glass of what little ale he had left and stood up, his head still down. "Fine. If that's the way you want it." He looked up and made an expert punch in the stranger's gut. When will they learn? The guy was winded and grasped his chest, giving Arcan the chance to execute an uppercut, which he did. The man crashed into the floor and was unconscious. "Tell whoever hired you this: try it again and I'll do more than smash you." He knew the guy wouldn't answer so he returned to his drink. Everything returned to normal and a couple of people who worked at the inn dragged the unconscious man away. I really wish they'd stop doing that. Sending some wannabee to do their dirty work. Arcan saw a note where the man fell. He picked it up and read it.

To all hunters. Keep on a lookout of a bounty hunter named Arcan Zarikon. Last seen in the city of Lomedor, the first to bring his head to Angband shall receive a bounty of 250 gold. No more, no less. He is well armed and dangerous in all ways of combat. Any who show this note to any authorities shall share the target's fate. A small picture of Arcan was included and he shook his head. Can't even get my face right. Artists these days. A hooded man then came through the door and Arcan pocketed the note and returned to his ale. The man seemed familiar to Arcan. He then took his hood off and Arcan recognized him instantly. He got up and walked up to the man and sat down at his table. His voice was low so others couldn't eavesdrop. "Well, well. If it isn't Kenyari. How you been?"

The creature stirred. The beast awoke from its slumber. The eyes opened. Dull orange orbs in the darkness. It listened to the rain hammering down on the street before it. Hidden away in a darkened alcove in a back ally the monster was preparing. Hidden from the sun and the people. A hidden evil under the gaze of good. It drew its feted rags and dirty cloth around it. Covering its body with a blood soaked cloak. Leathery wings folded arms at rest, blade sheathed and mouth closed a being straining to be released. It rose steadily to its feet. A metal glove emerged from the depths of the cloth rested on the blackened stone work. It was time.

The monster awoke, the beast moved and Tilorn entered Estoland., stepping into a world of driving rain and darkened skys. Tilorn drew his cloak in further. Hiding his body, his armour is soul from the world as he moved to his target. The rain was soaking his filthy cloak, blood stained water dripping from its ragged tails. The dirtied rain was running through the rags and down his body, into his armour and on his skin. It would have chilled a normal man to the bone but he was already so cold. He pulled the hood up around his head and bowed it. He was moving to the only lights still left flickering in this forsaken town.

He stopped before the windows. Looking in at the dry warmth of the tavern, he rested their just for a second, a fleeting spectre at the window. The dull eyes studied the creatures beyond the glass. Then it moved as quickly as it had arrived. Shunning the light and warmth. He moved around the corner, another back ally like any other. He waited by the door. Calm and restrained. Hidden in the shadows.

The door swung open. Light spilling out into the darkness. A young man hurried down the steps, the door closed after him and he was in the inky black once more. Tilorn lunged out from the shadows. The shackles of calm thrown off. Great gauntlets latched onto the man. One found the mans mouth and clamped down to prevent him from calling out. The man stiffened. The sent of death and decay drifting over him. Tilorn took a blade from his belt. He reached around the man and gently pushed it into his stomach. The man tried to cry out as blood oozed from the wound but the grip was to strong. He began to struggle franticly, Tilorn kept hold until the struggling stopped. He began to bring the blade around. Cutting through the fat and muscle. Ripping the flesh. Blood came spilling now, blood and bowels. Disembowelled the man struggled once more. His entrails hitting the floor, blood and filth being washed away by the rain. Tilorn held him until the man died in agony, the wild eyes still once more, the heavy breathing finally stopped the life was finished. He let the body slump to the floor as the blood painted the ally red.

He opened the door and stepped finally into the light. A small back room with nothing more than goods and food. Here he would wait, out of the way out of sight and out of mind. He found a corner and sat. He closed his eyes and the beast waited once more. It slumbered waiting to be awoken. This time there would be no restraint. Just a maelstrom of anger, hate and spite. A storm of violence will be unleashed.

Az had flown into the village of Estoland to grab a few more supplies that he could only find there, and chose a bad time to come. It was rainy, cold, windy, horrible conditions to be in anywhere. The only time he liked the rain was when he was out for a good long training run, or maybe a fight, but it sucked flying.

He was a good 200 feet into the air when it had started. He was gliding along at a fast speed, his bone armor on just in case a bird decided to get in his way. His bone armor was organic, so it just molded out of his body, able to form and go away at his will. It was overcast with huge dark clouds as he was about halfway there, then it started pouring suddenly. He panicked a little bit, thinking his wings might get cold and tighten up, or thought maybe they wouldn't be able to do anything in rain. He had never flown in any kind of precipitation before, but it wasn't that bad. He only had to shield his eyes by holding his arm out, but everything else wasn't that bad. His wings still functioned correctly, he just had to flap harder and faster to keep from getting cold.

In the distance through the heavy rain, he saw the lights of Estoland, and really wanted to get out of this rain. Safety was within reach. He tucked in, and dive bombed down to gain some speed, and spread his wings once he was near the ground redirecting his speed back to the town. He flew twice as fast now that he had gained speed due to gravity, and reached the village momentarily. As he reached the gates of the village, he saw that his fourteen foot wingspan was a little too long for the gates. At they were open though. He tucked in his wings, did a barrell roll and came through the oddly unmanned gates perfectly.He came skidding to a halt on his feet in front of the pub. He needed something to drink before grabbing his supplies.

Az walked into the pub, seeing that there was already action going on with Arcon and such. He never noticed the murder that went on outside, but he wouldn't have cared otherwise. It wasn't his business. Maybe he would have helped, but he would have just shrugged it off.

Inside, he shook his wings free of water, retracted them and his bone armor to reveal his clothed upper torso, dry as the desert. His pants were slighty wet, but he couldn't feel his legs due to training and killing his nerves in his legs. No matter then. He went up to the bar, ordered a simple water, and looked about waiting for his water. In the back he saw Kenyari, one of his new sparring buddies. He saw that someone else was talking to him, so he took his water and just walked up to him.

"Kenyari! Surprise seeing you here." He took a seat at his table, keeping quiet, letting the other person finish his share of talking. He quietly drank his water, the water being very refreshing even though he just got out of the soaking falling rain.

Kenyari was startled by the mans greeting because kenyari was already half asleep. Kenyari soon settled down as he realized who it was that woke him. It was a friend who he had helped in lomedor a few days ago. Funny meeting him here today in such a friendly way seeing as they didn’t get off to a fine start the first time.

"Hello old friend" he said as he zoned back into the real world. He looked around and saw a body laying on the floor. He didn’t bother to ask questions for he kind of did not care. The rain was still beating down but everyone was still in a calm manner. Kenyari had looked out of the window of the bar as he saw a figure who he thought looked highly familiar. Kenyari started to get up but the figure had left already. -i hope that was not who i think it was- he thought to himself as he sat back down. He also noticed someone else was making their way to where he was.

It was another friend of his. One he called Az. "How’s it going you two" he said talking to the both of them. It was rare for kenyari to be seen with friends anywhere but kenyari was beginning to trust the two of them as he sipped another glass of his ale that the cute little waitress had walked over and brought him.

"What brings the two of you to estoland on this stormy night" he said out loud two them as he finished the glass of his ale. He suddenly wanted another glass but didn’t want to leave the comfort of this small circle to go get it. Kenyari sat back as he awaited for an answer from his two friends.

"What brings the two of you to estoland on this stormy night?" Arcan smiled and was about to answer when he saw the dead body outside. He didn't show it but he was freaked out. A kill like that must've been painful. He focused his attention to Kenyari and the newcomer. "I'm on my way to Ondoland for a bounty. A thief according to the notice. Worth two hundred and fifty gold and I'm making my claim." Arcan slightly laughed and sipped the last of his ale. He looked over to where he fought off another assassination attempt. He didn't know whether he should show Kenyari or the newcomer the notice about the bounty on him. It was an illegal one was certain. Who offered it he didn't know. A strange man walked through the door and sat down in the corner Arcan was originally. Something strange about him that's for certain. Best stay way clear of him. A waitress came up to him. "Would any of you boys like a refreshment?" "Ah yeah I'd like one." Arcan gave her his glass and she left. "Anyway what are you guys doing around Estolad? Took me a few days to find it." The waitress came back and gave Arcan his glass back, filled with ale. "Thanks." The ale looked a bit different in colour. Arcan couldn't really tell.

(Sorry for the bad post.)

Rain pounded across the ground in sheets, blown by the strong winds accompanying the storm. The rainwater ravaged the dirt streets of the small village of Estolad, turning them into a thick clay-like mud that was hardly suitable for walking in. Many potholes had formed in the mud, caused by the millings of feet, or horse’s hooves. The rain formed a thousand tiny pools in these crevices, splashing in the collections. Water eventually over-flowed the potholes, spilling over into the patchwork of small gullies in between. Small streams flowed through each of these, carving an intricate pattern into the city streets.

Everything seemed quiet as Dean walked through the town. Everyone was indoors, either sleeping or drinking their fill at the local tavern. Dean wished he could enjoy such comforts right now. A hot bowl of stew and a large flagon of ale sounded great. Or possibly even a nice mattress and a pillow upon which to lay his head. But Dean was on a hunt, and thus had no time to kick back and enjoy himself. He was not his normal jovial self; instead he was fully concentrated on the task at hand.

He had heard through his various sources of a series of strange goings-on in the village. Mostly, the people of Estolad kept to themselves, welcoming the money of visitors but not their questions. Apparently, a drunken man had slipped a few words of an odd murder in the town to a fellow hunter. That man had gone to investigate, and Dean was meant to go and meet with him to find out more about the case. The letter he had received sounded urgent, as if the man felt he might be in danger. Dean had traveled here as fast as possible to assist, knowing that this would be a tough job if another hunter was frightened.

Dean wondered if perhaps a drunken old man was not so reliable a source. He sighed and pulled his coat tighter around his body to keep out the penetrating cold of the wind and rain. It did little good; the coat was saturated along with every other article of clothing. The rain wasn’t so bad, the pounding droplets were more of an annoyance than a hindrance. But the wind chilled him straight to the bone. He sighed and continued walking, wondering exactly where the hell his contact was. They were meant to meet in the middle of the main thoroughfare, and then move to a more secret location. Dean had just turned onto the main street, and there was not a soul in sight.

“This isn’t right…” he thought, moving more slowly through the main street now. There was barely any light, only a few windows still had the flickering glimpses of lamps behind them. It was enough to provide vision for now. There was also a particularly bright light just around the corner, accompanied by the noise of a rowdy tavern. Dean continued walking now, wondering where his contact was. Hunters took pride in being punctual, and Dean was certain he was not late enough for his contact to have ditched the meeting. His absence made Dean think perhaps he was too late.

His heavy footsteps sloshed in the mud as Dean made his way down the street faster than before. He had almost reached the corner now, the light of the tavern illuminating the road better now. Dean looked down and noticed that the rainwater that flowed across the ground was different. He bent down to observe the water closer. At first, it appeared as nothing more than typical flowing water. But as he bent closer, Dean noticed traces of red laced in with the water. The crimson trickles were diluted for the most part, but it was more concentrated as one neared the corner. Dean picked up the pace, nearly running now. He turned the corner, looking past the tavern…

Where he saw a horribly mutilated body lying in the street. He sighed and shook his head. Dean walked slowly over to the body, and bent down to observe it. The man had nasty bruises across his face, which looked like claw marks. Something had covered his mouth. A look of distress was still evident in his eyes. Dean looked down, grimacing as he saw the entrails and various organs of the hunter lying on the ground. The walls of the alleyway were painted red with splatters of blood. He had been completely disemboweled, but not by a beast. The cut was clean, a sword wound. Dean shook his head in sadness.

“Dammit…” he said under his breath. Dean used two fingers to close the hunter’s eyes. “What did you know?” he asked the dead man, not expecting an answer. This was indeed his fellow hunter, the one who had all the information on this hunt. And now he was dead. Dean assumed that whatever had killed him was panicked because he knew something. Though Dean assumed it was possible he was just another victim of whatever was plaguing the town.

In any case, now Dean was at square one. He had no information on this hunt, but there was obviously something going on. Dean began to wonder what type of creature might have killed the hunter. Several culprits came to mind immediately. It could have been a high-class demon, or possibly an angry spirit. A werewolf maybe, though the wounds would not have been so clean. Whatever it was, this thing meant business. Sighing, Dean stood and left the body lying there. The town guard would be making rounds and they would find the body. For now, Dean needed to find more information on the case.

He turned slowly away from the mutilated corpse, walking into the busy tavern to see if he could collect anything useful.

((Sorry, it took me awhile.))

Pierek was having a grand time, drinking ale and laughing with the other villagers, trapped by the rain, as they told stories and jokes. The waitress seemed suspicious at the monstrous quantity of ale he had already swallowed, but Pierek was tipping high tonight, and the busy woman said nothing. The shapeshifter sat at one of the larger tables in warm Kaima Inn, leaning forward in his with his elbows comfortably on the oaken table. Today, Pierek was a small, scruffy man with hairy arms and rough black hair and he was clothed in his muddy black cloak, that was buttoned loosely in the front and rolled up at the sleeves. The disguised spirit was surrounded by jesting and laughing men, boisterous and fun. Their faint thoughts imagining food and beer and money. The rest of the pub was mostly empty at first, until the first thunder of the storm, which was followed by a huge group of people piling in and crowding the bar, the only safe and public place for a ways around.

Pierek was enjoying an oddly heavy purse that night, even though typically he made no income. The day before, the curious mole-shaped spirit had been trying to dig into the age-old corridors underneath Lomedor, when he became confused and surfaced in the basement of a burnt-down house. Buried in that dirt, he had found a small bag of gold coins that he was now drawing off for everlasting alcohol.

As the night continued the mortal men he sat with began to tilt and slouch in their seats, and the crowd grew silent. Now, their minds turned to their beds at home, and darker rooms. The bored Pierek asked for another mug and discreetly stood up in search of a livelier table, when one man actually fell asleep in his chair. Scanning the friendly room, Pierek picked another table across the building and stomped across the loose floorboards and pulled a chair up to the near-full circle of hearty travelers. Somebody in this troupe of backpackers had brought a pack of cards, and an exciting and complicated game was being played. After each round, coins traded hands and players either smirked with satisfaction or expressed annoyance.

Seeing prospect for entertainment, Pierek quietly asked the man who seemed to be leading the game, "Might I join?"
The well-dressed dealer turned away from the table and replied with a chuckle, "Sure, traveler, you're welcome. Do you know how?"
Pierek shook his head, hoping he might be able to still. The benevolent player gave him a quick description of the rules of Poker, and dealt the whole game another hand. Pierek had learned quickly, and he liberally poured gold and silver in front of him on the table ready to gamble.

Elsewhere in the tavern people were still entering soaked, loudly introducing themselves, or recognizing friends and walking over to greet them. Pierek's mind-listening was distracted for a moment by one particularly evil consciousness, and his face registered discontent.

But then the disruption disappeared, and Pierek amiably returned to the game, upping the ante without even looking at his cards. When it came to be his teacher's turn, Pierek's ultra-awareness accidentally picked up his focussed thought, and the incidental cheater procured the image of his teacher's cards, and his strategy; he was going to try and buy the game, with bad cards, out-betting the others. When the bet passed back around to the table to Pierek, he realized he would lose, unless he took advantage of his random skill, and he pushed all his gold to the center of the table, in an "all-in" bet. Assuming Pierek was making a novice mistake: going all in on his first game, the dealer reinforced, "Are you sure you want to do that?" Pierek nodded simply, knowing he was surely to win. The dealer nervously returned his eyes to his own five cards, and then folded, withdrawing from the game. All the players revealed their cards, and then were baffled as the unsurprised Pierek scooped the pile of coins into his sack. "That was pretty tricky," commented the man he sat next to.

Pierek felt a pang of guilt for having deceived the welcoming band of wanderers, and he stood up to leave and avoid repeating it. As he strode back to his original table, still occupied with extremely drunk men, he heard a yell behind him: "Actually, that was a little too tricky!" Pierek spun around on his heels. "Convenient, isn't it, that you come to our game a lucky beginner, take a huge mound of gold, and then quietly leave! What do you think, friends?," the agitated loser hollered. Pierek had not notice how intoxicated the man had been, but he was informed as he stood up awkwardly, and knocked over his chair. His friends whispered at him to stop making a scene, and that it wasn't worth a fight. Defying his companions, the angry man suddenly rushed a Pierek. He wildly swung his right arm into his opponants nose. Pierek grunted, turned his head, and stumbled back. "It was an accident," he mumbled through his hand, covering his throbbing crushed nose. The short, injured man stood quietly for a moment, staring at his attacker filled with rage. He lashed out at the vengeful gambler by swinging his open, flat hand into the man's cheek, but as the man reeled back from the blow, he realized with horror that his face had been slashed open. Blood spilled off the four wounds on his cheek onto his neck and shirt, and he gawked at his own blood on his hands, and screamed, "What the hell is this!?" Pierek stood ready, his disgustingly mutated and clawed hand displayed in front of him, fingers spread and edged with blood. One of the other larger, more sober gamblers stood up and advanced to defend his friend. A bar fight was now inevitable.

Kenyari shook his head at the poor display of fighting skills by the drunken people in the bar. There wa sonly one person who seemed to catch his eye and that was a shape shifter but even then kenyari didn’t get up and react to anything that was going on. A few seconds before all this broke out kenyari had gotten another drink from that cute waitress that had served him the first time but this time she brought him a much bigger glass.

Kenyari looked at the one on one fight that soon turned into almost everyone in the vicinity to react and throw blows at each other. Some people that were a table away from kenyari had even ran half way across the bar just to join in on the action. -Nothing like a fight with a bunch of crazy drunk people to ruin a good night- kenyari thought to himself. He watched as chairs were thrown across the bar and full glasses of ale that could have been drunk got smashed into the skulls of random people.

Kenyari looked back at his two friends. "Hope you’re not joining in on this. This is nothing but uncontrolled chaos" he said as random war cries from people echoed in the small bar. The bartender and the waitresses that were there seemed to have disappeared once the fight broke out.

Suddenly kenyari caught out of the side of his eye a chair flying his way. Kenyari reacted quickly as he looked at the chair. He outstretched his hand and caught the chair with one hand. Kenyari put the chair back on the ground and put his feet up on it. "Hey i needed a foot stool" he said jokingly as the poor fighters got their heads smashed in either over a poker game or because they were just plain stupid and decided to join in. Either way kenyari was still going to sit at his table, drink his ale, and relax no matter how things got in this bar fight.

((That's my kind of savvy!))

Az was about to respond to the small talk question of how he was doing, when the small fight broke out. He watched, almost itching to join. Many a time had he purposefully started a bar fight just to have a little fun. He watched as Ken snatched the flying chair out of the air and used it as a footstool. He had seen better out of him in the last two fights, and them some. "Sorry, I'm just itchin' too buddy." He said and got up.

He then threw himself at the two opposing gamblers against Peirek, bringing his feet up and launching them out at their heads. He knew the sober one might be able to manage to dodge it, but he knew for sure he'd take down the drunk one. He used the force of the imapact and launched himself off into a back flip landing on the ground. He waited for a moment to see what they would do.

Billows of thick, smouldery-black smoke descended from the sky while tiny droplets of rain dove towards the ground quickly and pelted the long charcoal toned cloak of a stranger entering the village of Estolad. An “eerie” and mystical presence seemed to surround him, and the shadowy figure looked up into the sky, revealing two matching, crimson eyes. A small shard of moonlight refracted off of a dark blade in a scabbard under the robe, poking out as if it wanted to see what was going on. His head moved from side to side, and up to down, as if he smelled a substance that he was generally connected to, Blood. The intoxicating, delicious aroma of the fluid enchanted his sense of smell, and it seemed like the stranger wanted more of it. He looked around in all directions, rapidly searching for a target. He could feel his adrenaline pounding beneath his chest, and would give in to it soon enough. A single brown-robed man walked throughout the village of Estolad, the only one in sight. The rain still smashed against his cloak with persistency, but he seemed to ignore it easily.

This certain stranger had a name, and that name was Plague. Plague has done a good job of keeping his presence on the “down-low”, and seemed to disappear entirely from the face of Arda when he quit his job as a Mercenary and Scribe, and took up his passion of killing ruthlessly, claiming that it is for the greater good and the sake of Arda’s wellbeing, although apparently, it was just because he had a thirst for malevolence, malice, and especially death. The Rauko was sure that is was his obligation direct the attention of his newly-acquired target, otherwise he would escape into a house or building of some sort. Plague seemed to glide across the ground, making no noise at all, even though a regular person’s feet would be sloshing in the mud at this point. The brown-robed man didn’t seem like he was paying much attention to anything, and when Plague got closer, realized that he was a Scholar, a Pacifist, because of the detailed scroll the he was reading, and the other scrolls and parchments attached to his belt. Plague smiled, because he smelled uncertainty and obliviousness in his target.

The Lurk Warlord finally caught up to the scholar, and strode behind him easily, contemplating on what to do. At this point, he remembered a plan that he has executed countless times, and has worked just about all of them. A bony finger appeared from where his hands would come out of in the robe, and tapped roughly on the scholar’s shoulder. 50% of Plague’s plan was achieved when just as he had predicted, the scholar turned around to see who tapped on his shoulder. He turned his body 180 degrees, directly facing the other way, and Plague took this advantage and snuck around to his back. His bony hand shot out of the robe as it reached around the scholar’s face and found his mouth. It clasped around it, to make sure that the target did not alert anyone else. Within a split second, Plague’s other hand withdrew Demise, his bastard sword from its scabbard beneath his robe, and thrusted it around the scholar’s body, and put it horizontally in front of his stomach, so that with one quick slice, the man’s guts and blood would be spilled out. Various attempts to break free were pointless, because they could not break Plague’s strong grip on him.

The Rauko’s heart was racing, encouraged that 75% of his plan had been reached now, and he intended to finish off the other 25%. Plague turned the direction of his sword so that its point was poking the scholar’s low chest region, and with precision, the Rauko sidestepped to the left and thrusted the blade into his victim’s flesh. A scream was muffled through the fingers of a demon, and a man was now impaled through the stomach with a sharp, black blade. Plague smiled with cruelty, and decided to finish the person off quickly, instead of prolonging his agony and just letting him bleed to death. Looking from left to right and still with his blade through his enemy, he brought Demise out of the scholar’s body and withdrew his hand from the target’s mouth, because he would be too paralyzed or hurt to even speak, let alone shout or scream. Plague moved to the back of him again, and thrusted Demise forwards one last time, and it connected with the body of a scholar, and went through the upper-torso’s region. By the time that Plague removed his now bloodied blade, his target’s head was hung, never to rise again to see the light of day. The Lurk Warlord wiped his blade off on his target’s hands, giving him more cuts that bled. When Plague last looked back, the corpse was still bleeding profusely.

Plague’s thirst for blood was finally quenched. Well, for now anyways. He thought that he noticed some commotion in a nearby alleyway, but dismissed the thought as he peered at a figure entering the village’s inn, and figured that all he didn’t do anything. He looked one last time around himself, to make sure that no one at all saw his dastardly deed. “ This person had to die, if I allowed him to survive, he might have noticed me and reported me to the local authorities or something. Anyways, it WAS for the greater good, the Balance between Darkness and Light doesn’t mend itself, you know,” he silently commented to himself in a hollow tone. Plague decided that he might as well rest in the inn for awhile, and it might even be another chance to mend the world’s balance before it gets upset again, he thought. He walked in and noticed that some person had started a fight. Plague sat at a table close to the door and watched eagerly, wiping off a little blood on napkins provided at the table.

The bar fight began to get out of control with more and more people joining in. Arcan sighed and was about to get up when a chair came flying at him. He ducked and the chair smashed apart into the wall. "Watch it." His temper was starting to get the better of him. From a simple game of poker to an all-out bar fight, Arcan was sick and tired of the constant fighting. He raised his bow and got a barbed arrow into it. He first whispered to Kenyari. "I think it's about time these people got settled." He then yelled. "Right, if you people don't sit down and shut up, someone's gonna get an arrow through their head!" Most of the fighters heard Arcan's threat and stopped fighting. A rather arrogant fighter snorted. "Oh yeah? What makes you think he's going to follow through with that? I don't!"

The fight started up again and Arcan moaned. He released his arrow and it landed right next to the man who called out. He was freaked out. "Alright, he's serious. Let's just sit down and..." The man stopped all of a sudden. Arcan saw his draw steel. "Kill him!" The man ran at Arcan, swinging his sword above his head. "You sure you want to do that?" Arcan asked sarcastically. He nocked a normal arrow in and fired it at the man's sword arm. It struck its target and the man screamed and dropped his sword. Arcan fired two more arrows at his feet, pinning him down. Arcan got a barbed arrow loaded on his bow and aimed at the man's chest. "You're not gonna kill me are you?" Arcan smirked. "Maybe." He released the arrow and it zoomed at his taget's head. It just missed and drove itself into the far wall. "Maybe not." The man sighed in relief and the bar fight officially ended. Arcan let the man pull out the arrows himself. He put his bow away and sat down. "About time. Am I right?"

"No."

The voice echoed from the depths of the tavern, as if the very building was creating the sound. The harsh tones spoke again. "No, you are not right." The voice rumbled like an earth earthquake. Not human, no creature should be able to make a noise like that, it was barely real. "Chaos is part of a natural order, you can not deny nature, you will not deny nature, you are nothing." There was a long pause of silence that hung dreadfully in the air. Waiting for the next sentence to reverberate in their hearts. "You are but a mote on the gust of wind that is chaos. You are not one to fight it. No one is.

There from the kitchens he emerged. A giant, framed in the doorway, still covered in feted rags. The blood dripping from its ragged ends, staining the wooden floor with the life blood of another. He stood silently before the crowd, its dull orange eyes burning from the dark hood. Fixed upon Arcan, watching and waiting. The words of this pompous would be fighter had finally unchained the monster.

A hand emerged from the cloak and grasped the clinging rags. It tore them away and from the dank cloak bronze plates shone threw. It cast the filthy cloak from it. It stood still once more. Torch light gleaming of master crafted armour, bronze trim and painted steel. It grasped a helm strapped to the belt and donned it. Shutting out the world. He held the crowd in rapped awe but he knew the shock would not last long. It was time to restore what should be there by right. He drew a blade from his side, the perfectly polished glimmering destiny breaker.

He bent over. Tightening his body building up his anger and rage, ready to unleash it on the rest of the inn. To pass on his lust for blood and bitter hatred. To share his soul. He rose up and roared. Pushing out every vestige of anger in his body. The sound seemed to split the air. As if conjured from the deepest pit of hell. It filled the ears, hearts and minds of everyone in the inn. Their only thoughts now turned to fighting. To death murder and violence. True there would be some not overwhelmed but even they would harbour the desire to kill their kin. The terrorising bellow was at work.

He lashed around and pointed his sword at Arcan. All around him people were rising from their seats, preparing for their private wars. Punches where being thrown bottles broken and insults spoke. Crackles of energy began to discharge around his fist. Three bolts of enervation appeared from the air, they short forth in less than a second. Spiralling around in a trio at Arcan. The seated figure would be hard pressed to dodge them. Tilorn knew he would be the target of many now he had shown himself but so angered was he by Arcan that he did disregarded the risks and plans. The pathetic fool would die.

Dean’s heavy footsteps clunked dully on the floorboards of the tavern as he entered. No one really seemed to take much notice of his presence, save for a few men who gave him a glance and then went back to their drinks. Small puddles of water were left wherever he stepped, his clothes dripping wet. He removed his coat and hung it on a rack by the front door. Dean hoped that the heat from a raging fire within the stone fireplace would dry his coat and his other garments before he had to venture out into the rain. Better yet, perhaps it would actually stop raining before the bar closed.

Sighing, Dean walked up to the bar counter. The barkeep was rather busy, his establishment packed to the brim with patrons on this stormy night. Dean found an empty chair and sullenly sank into it. It was not a particularly comfortable seat, but it felt good to take a load off anyway. Dean leant forward onto the bar slightly, resting his bodyweight on his elbows and looked around. The barkeep eventually glanced Dean’s way, and Dean flagged him down with a lazy raise of his hand. After finishing cleaning out a glass, the barkeep walked over.

“What can I get for ya’, son?” he asked. Dean considered for a moment, pulling out a small pouch of silver and gold pieces. He laid a few on the counter, sliding them towards the fat innkeeper.

“A stiff mug of ale and some hot food,” he replied. Dean hardly made eye contact with the barkeeps, hanging his exhausted head and looking about at the bar. The bartender took his money and nodded, disappearing behind the counter to fill Dean’s order. Despite the bustle of the busy tavern, his order was served promptly, and Dean greedily dug into the meal. He had not realized how hungry we was until entering the bar. He scarfed down a bowl of hot stew that the barkeep had brought out, almost burning his mouth and throat on the food. The bowl was soon reduced to nothing but cleaned wood, and Dean felt satisfied and warmed by the food. He had not eaten since mid-day, and it had to be approaching morning by now.

Dean took his time with the ale, drinking slowly and looking about the bar. He sighed as he heard the drunken shouts of a sore looser. Apparently, someone had just come up on the wrong end of a gambling payout. The drunken man stood up slowly, swaying, and yelling at another man, who now had a rather large reservoir of gold in his hands. Dean wondered if perhaps the winning man had cheated. He shrugged, deciding he didn’t give a damn, and returned to his ale. The bubbly, amber drink had seen him through many hardships before and it would not cease to do so now.

The bustle of a barfight erupted behind Dean as several drunken men began to duke it out with wildly exaggerated motions. Some of their form was utterly deplorable. Dean normally would have reveled in the chance to knock a few heads together, but tonight he was too cold, tired, and sober to join in. He was always focused when working a job, and joining in such a fight would only lead to unnecessary injury, which wuld lead to problems later on in the hunt.

The fight was brutal, but brief, with several of the contestants proving to be much more skilled than the others. Dean marked out those with more skill in case he had any altercations with them later. Dean was prone to doubting himself. He especially noticed the keen and uncanny accuracy of one man, who was a quick draw and an amazingly accurate shot. Dean with impressed. He wondered of what lineage the man was to possess such skill. He noted with a certain sadistic curiosity how the other man would never walk again, his feet pierced with arrows. He had been allowed to live, if only barely.

Dean noted that there was nothing much in the way of an obvious protagonist to the fight, save for a drunken card player who had lost his next round of drinks to a shady traveler. Despite the show, Dean was still no closer to finding out exactly what was going on in this town. He sighed, cupping his hand and taking the last draft of ale left in his tall mug. He felt better now that he was dry and had some food and good ale in him.

The warm feeling quickly receded, however, as a terrifying voice came from the back doorway. Dean looked over to find some horrifying abomination standing in the doorway, clothed with rags. It’s leathery bat wings initially made Dean believe it was a demon, but the eyes betrayed something different. A vampire? Dean had never seen any case of vampirism this far advanced. It was obviously an ancient vampire for the beast to be so twisted from its original form. Dean’s hand instinctively shot around behind him, to where his double-bladed weapon hung across his back. Dean felt the tight yet easily unlocked clasp in his fingers, ready to release the blade if this…. thing dared to make a move.

The abomination roared. Dean winced as the bellow pierced his ears and vibrated everything around. It was terrifying. Some of the other men in the bar ran for cover, while some began to reach for hidden knives. Their eyes went wild, as though they were possessed. Men stood and began taking random swings at each other. Dean felt his adrenaline level rise. This was bad. With a flick of his wrist and a simple hand motion, Dean released his weapon from its sheath and gripped the handle firmly. He pulled the blade out of it’s sheath with ease, twirling it once and jumping off of the barstool.

One man took a swing at him with a glass bottle. He parried with the flat of his blade and spun, thrusting with the opposite end of the weapon and sticking the man in the gut. Dean wrenched the blade free and began working his way through the erupting fight. Attacks came from all sides, everyone in the bar suddenly erupting into a frenzy of bloody fighting. This was no ordinary brawl; these men were out for each other’s throats. Dean parried to all sides, making precise movements and slicing through the less sober patrons like paper.

Eventually, Dean made his way through the fight over to the abomination in the corner. Dean leapt at it, slicing with his blade, hoping to land a strike…

Plague smiled and leaned back in his chair leisurely, enjoying what was going on currently in the small tavern. A plump barmaid walked up to his table and with an accent that made it kind of hard to understand her, asked in Adunaic, “Sah, do you b wantin’ n’thing?” which he translated into, “Sir, do you want anything?” The Rauko glared at her, but responded in a chilling tone, “ Give me a cold drink, and make haste with it.” While the barmaid went to get his order, he observed what was happening with excitement somewhat like a schoolgirl. A giant fight had broken out between drunks, sobers and apparently a demon of sorts. Plague sneered as he watched the drunken fighters brawl it out, using slow and very clumsy motions, but noted that one of them had amazing quickness and accuracy with a bow. He had barely missed an opponent many times, and easily shot him in the areas that he had aimed for within a split second. The Demon made sure to remember this if he decided to join in on the incident.

He looked to his left and noticed someone that looked like a demon, and had leathery vampire wings. Plague could easily tell that the defiled creature had killed someone recently, because the intoxicating aroma of blood had surrounded his clothes, and he could even see where some of it had clung onto his body. He spoke in a harsh and hollow tone, and if the Rauko was Human, he would be terrified by the horrible voice. Later, another human entered the tavern, and Plague could tell that he, too, was a seasoned fighter. The Lurk Warlord took note of the flesh wounds that adorned this new combatant’s body, and he had black hair with deep green eyes. A sober male had just been hit over the head with a chair next to him, and seemed to be out cold. Blood from a broken nose spilled out onto the hardwood floor, and as Plague looked around, more and more of the substance that was like nicotine to the Lurk was being shed, and it was too much. All of the pain and bloodshed was just too much for the alleged ‘Agent of Balance’ to endure. Deep within the confines of his mind, Plague thought of an excuse to join the brawl. If this fighting continues, then too many people could be killed. But if it doesn’t continue, then someone who should have died might not have. I must maintain this orderly balance. Plague smiled grimly, and stood up.

A drunk was heading towards him with a longsword and a confused look on his face, obviously trying to contemplate what exactly Plague was. The obviously less-skilled fighter made the mistake of drawing steel against the Rauko, and would pay dearly. When the drunk raised his sword to behead the headless Demon, Plague jabbed Demise, his Bastard Sword, at the man’s right hand, which was holding the blade. It made contact, and a shriek of pain was let loose from his throat. Plague used fluidic-like movements in battle, combining the satanic and hellish arts of swordplay that he had learned prior to this night with his own devilish thoughts. Demise was raised, and Plague stepped to the left of the man. His sword met contact with an unfortunate stomach, and impaled it. Plague finished up the drunk by grabbing the blade that had a blanket of crimson liquid over it, and pulling it through. This left a gaping hole in the stomach of his adversary, and blood began to pour profusely out of it.

Plague cackled at his malicious nature, and continued in the fight. This time, a sober opponent came after the demon, trying to “avenge” the man that he had just defeated. Although he was not intoxicated with alcohol, the Demon could tell that he wasn’t much of a fighter, because he didn’t carry a weapon with him. Plague sheathed Demise within his scabbard, and decided to only use his fist as well. Plague ducked as his opponent through the first punch, which was just the opening that he needed. With his left hand, he grabbed the fist and pulled it back, causing the man to loose his footing and come forwards. With his right, he curled it up into a fist and launched it at his adversary’s unprotected side, an even though Plague wasn’t sinewy, he was still strong. The bony hand of Plague connected with his side, and a howl of agony shot out instinctively. This was followed within a split second as Plague lunged behind his foe and kicked with all of his might at the man’s left calf, making him cry out in pain again, but also limiting his movement, as he was forced down to just his right leg holding him up. Plague finished it up by placing his hands on the neck of his foe and twisting as hard as he could. A large CRAAAACK rang out through the air of the tavern as his neck was snapped.

Plague pushed the dead man over and turned around, unsheathing Demise from its scabbard quickly. Demise practically loathed for more blood, and seemed to swing itself at another man, slicing directly into his left arm, and causing blood to spurt out of it and at the Rauko. It stained into his cloak, and he swung the mighty blade one more time at the now screaming man. It slashed deep into the neck of his victim, but not quite beheading him. The red liquid that Plague could not get enough of oozed out of the wound that Plague had just provoked. While it was still spurting out, Plague attacked this man one more time, and couldn’t control himself. He smashed the butt of his blade into the open forehead of the man he had assaulted, which caused a large bruise and made him plunge into a chair that was conveniently behind him. As the corpse “sat” in the furniture, Plague stabbed several times at him, causing holes in the wood, and blood to seep out of them and form into a pool on the ground. Plague leaned over and used his index and middle fingers to draw up a sample. His bony fingers disappeared within his hood, and good-tasting pleasure gripped the Rauko.

Kenyari still sat in his chair even though his two good friends had decided to join the fight. A fighter tried to run up and attack Kenyari but Kenyari was not in the mood to fight in this. Kenyari quickly rolled out of his chair and kicked the chair at the man. The chair connected with the man’s legs causing him to lean over. Kenyari quickly through a punch aimed for the man’s face. The punch landed hard and snapped the man’s nose and some of his neck with the force of him falling and the thrust of Kenyari’s punch.

Kenyari quickly stood up and dusted off his cloak. He lifted the man’s body up partly by the hair. He then threw the man to the side as he retrieved his chair. He sat back down and took another sip of his ale really trying not to get involved in this fight. Kenyari was trying to relax even through all the commotion going on. The best fighter is always the one who can stay calm and think his way through the fight. Kenyari was determined to show that it was true.

Kenyari smiled at the marksmanship of his friend Arcan as he seemed to cause peace though the bar for the moment. Kenyari laughed at the man who seemed to be suffering from the pain of the arrows that he had been shot with. Kenyari being a demon loved to see people in this condition but loved even more doing it but he refused to do it this time around. Everyone else wanted to bash each other’s skulls in but Kenyari wanted to be the only one there civilized.

Suddenly the voice of a familiar being rang out and sent a deep cold chill down his spine. He looked in the direction of the man and sure enough it was who he thought it was. Tilorn, A once friend but now he had no idea what they were now. Tilorn quickly gave out a loud roar that Kenyari was too familiar with. It was a roar that sent people into a berserk state and Kenyari knew that if he didn’t resist it all he would be no better than the drunken fighters that went wild in the bar.

Kenyari smashed his hands into the table spilling his drink on the floor. In the background he could hear the loud grunts and moans of people fighting again. Kenyari closed his eyes and tightened his fists as he tried to resist the effects of Tilorn’s effect. Kenyari didn’t see the assault on Arcan for he was too busy fighting himself to not join the pointless bar fight. Kenyari quickly found that it was not resistible and he flipped the table over trying to refrain from it all. Kenyari didn’t know what was worth, Fight others and killing them over a poker game or throwing himself all over the bar trying not to join the fight. Deep down Kenyari’s inner demon wanted the taste of more blood but ken didn’t want to feed into it all.

He quickly turned to see someone coming towards him with a half of a bottle. Kenyari quickly unsheathed his sword devastation and sliced the man’s arms off in self defense. The man let out a loud scream that sent a urge through Kenyari’s body, yet Ken only put his sword back in the sheath and fell to his knees trying to control his own actions. He knew it would be easier to just fight but why waste so much energy in this pointless thing. He could have easily just given into the fighting urge but he wanted to be one of the only ones who refused to fight in this. He took a quick sweep of the inn and noticed he was not alone in not wanting to fight and suddenly didn’t feel so bad about fighting himself not to.

Arcan's eyes filled with dread as he saw a demonic beast come out of nowhere. "No, you are not right. Chaos is part of a natural order, you can not deny nature, you will not deny nature, you are nothing. You are but a mote on the gust of wind that is chaos. You are not one to fight it. No one is." "Whoever said anything about defying nature? I just wanted this pointless bar fight to stop. Who the hell are you anyway?" Arcan must've gone too far when he heard a ferocious roar come from the beast. Soon the peace Arcan made was broken, and a bar war started. The demonic creature then cast away its bloodied cloak to reveal armour, and at good quality at that. A sword was drawn and Arcan knew this monster meant business. The beast pointed its sword at Arcan and three bolts of energy came flying at him. They were fast and started zooming around him. One made a sharp turn for his head. Arcan ducked and the bolt hit the ground. A second bolt spiralled around his legs and shot at his waist. Arcan wasn't quick enough and was hit. Pain shot through his veins and he was pushed to the side from the spell. The last bolt came for his torso. Arcan rolled out of the way and felt the small shockwave of the lightning slamming against the floor. He got up and dusted off his armour. For the love of god I'm outta here! I'm not a bloodthirsty monster like that freak! Arcan saw a hooded man brutally kill a few fighters and taste some of their blood. Or that guy. He turned to Kenyari. "I'm not getting further involved in this. See you later."

Arcan grabbed his bow and fired several arrows through the window. It shattered and the glass hit the ground outside. Arcan jumped through the window and nocked a barbed arrow into his bow, just in case. He retreated into a cast shadow between two buildings and waited. He had his arrow held in place with two of his left fingers and his right hand holding the end of the arrow. He'd strike the beast if he had to. His head throbbed with pain. He thought it was just because of the shock he took or it might be a feeling that was urging him to get back in the bar and kill everybody. Arcan shook his head at the thought and concentrated for his ambush. If he comes after me I'll give him hell. If he doesn't I'll put my weapon away. Come and get it.

Pierek foresaw a bar-fight, and one came. There was a long, silent moment while the opponents faced off, then the standoff was abruptly broken. A brawler, maybe drunk or just playful passed over Pierek's shoulder and collided with his oppressors and lit the fuse. The spirit winced for the sake of those unfortunate gamblers and retreated finally, sliding backwards attentively as irrelevant bystanders gradually joined the clash. Leaning on the back wall, Pierek observed the chaos he had inspired. The fight grew fast, accumulating members and becoming more brutal with size. Fists evolved into weapons, and even more characters presented to battle uselessly. In a previously uniform crowd emerged monsters with wings and claws, and raised weapons flashed above, some suddenly disappearing as they were cut down by the true warriors. Tables were reduced to weapons for the poor, or just splinters on the floor, and the sound of breaking mugs pierced ears.

Abruptly, there was an awesome order then that fell over the hectic room, but only just for a second, as a soldier Pierek recognized threatened death to fighters. Pierek cynically noted, (How futile.) As predicted again, the free-for-all resumed as if there was no interruption despite well-meaning Arcan's attempts.

The swirling mass of irrational anger and spite enveloped the pitiable Kaima Inn, nearing completely. Fearful commoners and overpowered and intoxicated men rushed out through exits, filtering the battle away into only the pure champions. The strained floor boards were revealed when the crowd thinned, and it startled the pessimistic spirit that the boards were stained with blood and spilled beer and cluttered with incomplete; mutilated bodies, entrails, and crushed tables. The servers escaped the grand melee last, pausing to herd the helpless or injured out themselves and look longingly back at their decimated establishment. But among the withdrawing people the truly brave or strong still waved crimson weapons, and they parried when the innocents were out of the way.

Pierek did not leave with others. He was reluctant to evade a conflict he started, afraid of being a coward. When there was room, he pushed away from the weak wall he had been leaning on and reached into his gut for his weapon. Sliding his hand deftly past flesh and through another dimension into his essence, he groped around of his old cutlass. The shortsword was not where he had remembered it, and he dug farther, closer to his fiery, magical core. Finding the grip of his favorite weapon, he unsheathed it and exposed it to reality finally, all of that in a moment. The bit of metal held a different weight that Pierek remembered, and he frantically glanced at it in his clawed fist. The blade was magical, engulfed in flame, and burning heartily like a torch. Pierek did not ponder this new trait long, being desperate to defend himself, and he raised the burning cutlass straight out in front of him, and scanned the bar.

None of the catalysts of that bar-fight remained at this outrageous stage except Pierek. Three-stepping into the middle of the muggy bar and the massive fray, he quickly found an opponent. An ugly human-ork hybrid rushed at the flame-wielding spirit with a gigantic oaken club raised all the way above his head, prepared for a dramatic downward smash. Pierek hustled to meet his foe. The swipe came as Pierek guessed, or maybe even discerned from thoughts emanating, like whispers unconsciously received. His flame-wrought sword came up and easily cleaved the oaken club into two parts, assigning the brute a small stub and flinging the separated block of wood across the floorboards. The spirit had mercy though, and allowed the broken brawler to break away from the fight, and flee to the safety of the outdoors.

Pierek depressedly surveyed the chaos again, realizing he was standing in spilled cards, soaked in alcohol. His temper flared finally, and his expression changed from a sullen uncaring to absolute bloodlust. In a spark of brutal ingenuity he knelt down and dipped his sword aflame into the odorous ale, and it blazed immediately, exploding into a huge holocaust in no time. It encased Pierek, and he absorbed the flames, allowing himself to be set ablaze, but only before he inhumed his cloak into an orifice in his back. The shape-shifter's naked body was covered with hellish red fur, that stretched across his face and arms and across his whole body before the eyes of those nearby, poisoning his black hair to crimson. The cutlass ablaze was the first thing to leave that chthonic aura, followed by the anatomy of a devil. Pierek snarled, releasing white and pointed teeth and disgusting tusks. The aberration frightened even another group of warriors into running away. But still Pierek was in danger of attack from any one of those remaining warriors, and he stepped into a stance for a duel. The fire spread among the beer-saturated floor and under the feet of those inside.