That burning ball of flame hung low, giving its morning greeting to blue sky. Those billowy white ships that floated across that great expanse breathed a gentle breeze upon the land and so were the brows of the Lomedor's laborers cooled. The weather was such as to say today would be a kind day for all and it would see it through no matter what. It seemed too, that the citizens of Lomedor would make the best of it. The redolent aroma of baked goods filled the air near a bakery, at the smithy's, the industrious pounding of steel rang loud, and hawkers lined the street, advertising serums that'd grant eternal life and gloves that'd give you the strength of ten gods. It appeared that even the thieves were hard at work, as a nimble fingered lad ran by with a money purse clutched in his hand, followed by two panting guards, encumbered by the weight of their mail.

For Will, however, the day didn't seem to hold such happy potential. It had been ten years since he had last been in Lomedor and ten years since that ill-fortuned day. His quest for redemption had brought him back, a calling from the depths of his soul, and until now, such callings had never served him well. His old home had beckoned for his return and he would answer.

The cottage the knight had grown in was just outside of the market districts and not too far from the estates of several wealthy noble. It was sandwiched between two other houses of similar design with a small yard in the back so that its tenants might have a garden. It had four windows, two of which were square, on either side of the door, a triplet to the other two in the back looking out on the garden, and one small pentagonal shaped portal in the loft. All of the lower-leveled windows were flanked by red shutter. The roof was steeped on the one and one-half storied house and shingled with red clay tiles. As William remembered, it had been a tidy house and one of the best kempt on its block.

Today, that house appeared far different, however. Gloom hung over the house like a rain cloud. The windows were cracked and their panes splintered. The paint on the shutters had peeled off and one hung on naught but on hinge, idly waving in the breeze. Tiles from the roof littered the lawn, thrown from the roof by violent weather over the past ten years. Weeds had sprouted up between grounded planks that made up the porch, the shade provided by the roof that hung over it conducive to their growth. They were everywhere except for the door, which hinted that someone still lived here.

To Will, it was an odd sight. When he had murdered his father he had always figured the house would sell to someone else, someone else that would take care of its upkeep, someone else that would raise a happy family in it. It had been an encouraging thought and the fact that this wasn’t the case, was rather disheartening and almost sickening. To him, the house had been hallowed ground. Before the death of his mother and sister, it had been a happy place. Guilt for murdering his father had since erased the bad memories from the year afterwards. Silently, he resolved that he would one day buy the place and fix it back to the way it was, in memory of the family he had killed. For now though, tidying up the inside would have to do.

With a heavy heart, he travelled the distance to the door, and as they had so many times before, those callused digits remembered that tarnished bronze door knob again. The door opened reluctantly, struggling to deny Will entrance, protesting with a dull whine the whole way. Immediately, the soldier’s sense of smell was assaulted with the smell of alcohol, urine, and trash. A startled swarm of flies took flight from a discarded hunk of meat as he pushed his way into the room. The common room was littered with refuse such as this. With each step farther he took into the room, more cockroaches ran from him just as more memories came to him.

It was three months after the death of his mother. The first snow of the winter was freshly fallen and the night was still very young. Will had just brought in a bundle of wood from the shed. His father had sent him home early to start a fire and he intended to do so, especially so he could avoid the consequent beating if he failed. He knelt down near the hearth and arranged the kindling he had gathered into a pile. Just as he was about strike his flint, the door slammed open, bouncing off the wall.

“Boy!!! Didn’t I tell you to start a damned fire! I’ll teach ya to listen this time”

He didn’t have time to stand before his father’s kick connected. The force steel covered boot knocked Will off his feet and to the ground. The last thing he remembered was the warm trickle of blood down the side of his face.

The memory doubled Will over as vomit rose from his churning stomach. An orangish-red substance surged through his mouth and nostrils, threatening to splatter in his shoulder length hair. A sudden hatred re-emerged for his father as the thought finally occurred to him; could that hateful being have survived? He cringed at the possibility, but it warranted investigation nevertheless. This new development reinvigorated the young knight’s purpose and strengthened his resolve. As the last streams of acid escaped, he forced himself to his feet. Dodging midden heaps of refuse, Will crossed the common room to a door.

It had been where his parent’s had slept, where he and his sisters and shared the loft. His family could not afford a knob for this door, but instead the thin oak plank was populated by a metal handle his father had made. He pushed the door open. It appeared as if the bedroom had been kept cleaner than the living room as only a few empty liquor bottles were strewn about the floor. The bed was the same his parents had shared, and apparently the sheets were too. They were thread bare with tears and holes in several places. The bed was covered in stains of what was probably a mixture of alcohol and urine. The chamber was cleaner definitely, but it scarcely smelt any better than the common room. Once again, the possibility of his father’s survival loomed, and with the redeemed knight, the decision to finish what he had started so many years ago. The acid in his stomach began to rise once more as the acrid stench of the bed assaulted his nostrils further. He would have to leave the room.

He returned the bedroom door to its former position upon his exit. William daren’t leave anymore evidence of his presence, especially with the vomit already on the floor. There was one last destination he would have to visit before leaving the house: the upstairs. He had not viewed the loft since the death of his sisters. For the year he had remained at home, his father had moved his bed to the common room and forced him to sleep there. Fully aware of the oddities that could await him in the loft, Will steeled his wits as he climbed the stairs. Upon reaching the top, he realized that no one had disturbed this room in years. A thick layer of dust was layered on all of his sisters’ possessions and cobwebs had grown thick in the corners. The room was exactly as he had remembered it, minus his own possessions and bed. Satisfied with what he saw, he left the loft to the state of abandonment it had grown so accustomed to the last ten years.

The knight’s deemed that his work was done and thus exited the home of his youth. His next course of action would be to visit the local taverns and check with the management if his father, Symus Aratan, was among their fare. It was obvious that his dependency on whiskey had followed the man past his near-death, if that was, in fact, the case.

The first place Will visited was a lively tavern near the docks called the Bloated Goat. It was a two-story establishment, with rooms for rent and an apartment for the barkeep on the second level, the kind of place he could see his father frequenting. Given his past, the soldier himself, wasn’t much of a drinker. Today, however, he would make an exception if he had to. After all, tavern-goers would be less likely to share information if he wasn’t willing to share a brew. With his plan of action fresh in mind, Will brushed aside the tavern door and made for the bar with a purpose, he had to act the part if he was going to be in the play.

“I’ll have a mug of ale, barkeep!”

His casual tone was an attempt to match that of the bar’s other patrons, as well as their actions. As the tender worked to fill his orders, Will took advantage of the time to observe the establishment. It was the stereotypical tavern with a bar on one side and round tables to take up floor space. Towards the back of the main room, there was a fireplace that stood on a platform where there might be performances. There was a staircase to the right of the stage and the place was kept relatively dark. The downstairs smelt like a mixture of ale and some kind of meaty stew. It was only mid-day so the place was relatively quiet, but Will was sure it would liven up come night. When the barkeep returned with his drink, Willk questioned him about his father.

[color =blue]“Have you heard of a man named Symus Arantar? He stands about…”

The barkeep interrupted him before he could finish.

”Maybe I ‘ave and maybe ‘aven’t. Whats it ter ya?”

He had a rough voice, typical from long hours of working in a smoke filled tavern, and he spoke as if he was daring Will to cause trouble with him. It was apparent, however, that he knew who Symus was.

”He’s an old friend of my father’s. I was asked to find him.”

It was a good enough excuse, especially as many folk who knew Symus also knew he once had served as a soldier.

”Well why don’t ya stay a while and ‘ave and a few more ter drink.”

The statement could be interpreted several different ways, the primary two being the tavern-master wanted to make his money off of him or that he was protecting Symus and wasn’t about to tell this stranger where he could find him without learning more about why. The former seemed more likely, but Will decided it was worth staying to make sure.

It wasn’t before long that the contents of that first tankard had disappeared. It’d been some time since he had drank, but Will never remembered drinking quite so quickly. In the midst of conversation with a bright-eyed cooper seated next to him, the knight jokingly examined the bottom of his mug for holes.

”Aye, well I don’t see no holes!”

The drink had already begun to take its course as he was a bonafide lightweight. It was quite visible in his actions. His speech was already starting to slur and his eyes were gaining that glazed gaze of drunkenness. The bartender took particular interest in Will’s state and brought more ale before he could request it. Suspicious behavior, but by now the soldier’s senses were dulled enough not to take notice.

”‘Ey, barkeep! Do ya feel like talkin bout me fa-“

He had a good dizzying up after that first mug, but he was still aware enough to recover from that statement. He’d almost said Symus Arantar was his father.

”father’s friend, Symus? I’ve ‘ad a drink like ya’s wantin’ me to.”

He was completely slaughtering andunaic being the lightweight that he was, the ale was already taking its effect. As he took a long pull from his fresh mug of ale, the bartender gratified him with a response.

”’Ows about ya drink a few more and then I’ll do some talkin’ with ya? I’m still a bit busy with the tavern here, fella.”

Will accepted this bit of reality, besides it had been so long since he had had a drink and to be honest, he was having a good time talking with the cooper next to him. The man was a cheery fellow and delightful to talk to. If it wasn’t contrary to the purpose he had given himself, the cooper was starting to convince him that maybe life as a simple laborer in the city wasn’t so bad. That was mostly the alcohol speaking, however.

”So wha’ part of Low-me-dar ya from”

”I live down by the docks.”

The conversation would follow in that vein for the rest of the night, mug after mug. Eventually, Will had forgotten the inquiry about his father and as time wore on, there was nothing but black.

He woke up to the steady drip of water. Where was he? He breathed in. The air was damp, polluted by a stagnant mixture of trash and beer. He felt the earth, it was cold and sticky. When he finally pushed himself to his feet, Will realized where he was and possibly, what had happened. The ground was sticky and the air smelt like beer because he was in an alley. He had been drunk last night and it was more than probable that he had been mugged, though he had few possessions. With the possibility fresh in his mind, the soldier took a sudden inventory. He still had his cloak and his gold. He was fully clothed as far as he could tell, unless whoever the culprit was had robbed him of his under-breeches. Will, satisfied that he had retained all of his possessions, dusted the alley grime from his hip. And it was gone! His sword wasn’t there, that precious reminder of his troublesome past had been thieved.