The Crimson Tear (Invite Only)

[Psiko]

(OOC: As stated in the OOC Thread, only post in here if I invited you personally. All other posts will be deleted. Sorry for the delay, everyone, but too many distractions led to procrastination, lol)

A single tear forms in the corner of his eye, gliding along the contours of his face before plummeting to the icy ground. His mind is stricken with grief, yet his face remains emotionless. His world, everything that he cherished, is gone. It all happened so fast, yet somehow he already knew what would happen. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he had known this would happen. It had to happen. There are no more excuses. No more reasons for him to delay the inevitable, to enjoy one more day of peace. The time for action is now.

He runs a hand through his thick hair as he contemplates his next course of action. He looks down at the ground, unable to stand the sight of the charred rubble that was once his house. His green eyes gaze at a shard of glass lying at his feet, staring at his own reflection. His hair, once black in color, now has streaks of gray running through it. His eyes and cheeks are now lined with forming wrinkles, showing signs of his age. Several beads of sweat roll down his face as he struggles to catch his breath, still winded from a short sprint that, five years ago, would have hardly phased him. He is getting old and although he might not always feel the effects of time, his body shows it.

Another rare tear manages to escape, creeping down his cheek as he stands there, lost in thought. He wipes away the tear as he lets out a heavy sigh. He whispers a quick prayer for his wife and child before turning away from the smoldering remnants of his home. He slowly begins walking away, his leather boots crunching the thin layer of snow on the ground with each step. An hour passes as he makes his way across the snowy field, heading for the nearest town. The wind whips through the air, tearing at his dark blue cloak that he has wrapped around his body. The winter air chills his bones despite the fact that he is wearing a thick pair of black pants and a black shirt beneath his tan tunic. Hunger gnaws at his stomach and fatigue plagues his body. His muscles ache with every step, sometimes causing him to wince in pain. Just as he is about to give in to exhaustion the familiar sights of the town of Chrebet come into view.

Dozens of buildings, made from dark gray stone, line the narrow roads in the town. Streets are packed with people scurrying around, none of them paying attention to what the next person is doing. Thieves of all ages crouch low, cutting the purses of the unwary. Timid merchants cower behind rickety carts, often settling for a lesser payment than the item cost them. Somewhere in the distance a person slumps to the ground with a muffled shriek, her throat slit, but nobody pays heed. Chase cautiously makes his way through the dangerous twists and turns of the town as he heads toward the safest place in town: The One-Armed Juggler. He would be safe there for the night, if anywhere in Chrebet could be considered safe. He rounds a corner to come across a lone building with boarded windows and a heavy steel door. An old, rotting sign dangles on one hinge above the door, the picture displaying a one-armed juggler struggling to juggle three balls with the tavern’s name emblazoned in bright yellow letters below. Chase walks up to the door and knocks three times, allowing a long pause in between each knock. A small flap swings open and a set of brown eyes peer out, squinting at Chase.

“State yer business,” a deep, booming voice bellows from inside the tavern.

“I am a friend to Reuben Highdragon,” Chase responds cooly.

“I be the one to decide if yer friend or foe. State yer business or off with ye.”

“I seek shelter for the night. If you would just tell Reuben that Chase Brigandine is here to see him…”

“No vacancies!” the man yells as he slams the flap shut. Annoyed by this ordeal Chase knocks again, this time harder than before. The flap opens again momentarily, but then slams back shut as the man bellows “Go away before I slit yer gullet!” As Chase is about to knock a third time he feels a light tug at his belt and spins around, reaching for his knife. His hand falls to where his knife had been, but it is no longer there and Chase seethes with anger as he watches a shadow slip around a corner, getting away with both his gold an his knife. Blind with fury Chase pounds on the door, demanding entrance. From inside the building a familiar voice calls out.

“Chase,” he shouts over the pounding of the door, “Izzat you?” The door swings open and a tall, stocky man stands in the doorway, his blue eyes squinting. A long, shaggy beard reaches down to his muscular chest. He is wearing light plated armor with a black shirt underneath. A thick leather belt holds up his pair of black pants. What little hair is left upon his head whips around in the breeze of the frigid winter evening. A thin smile crosses his face as he welcomes Chase into the One-Armed Juggler, leading him to a table in the corner. The two men sit down across from each other, Reuben wanting to know what brings Chase to the tavern at this hour.

“Reuben,” Chase begins as a frown crosses his face, “Jean and Owen are dead.”

A look of horror flashes across Reuben’s face as he whispers softly, “I’m sorry, Chase.”

Several moments of silence pass as Chase tries to compose himself before speaking again. “We knew this would happen sooner or later, Reuben. We knew we would never truly leave our old lives behind us. It is time, my friend.”

“Yes, Chase, it is time. The Kingdom Empire is expanding its domain once more, using the same ruthless tactics that they enforced twenty years ago.”

“How do you know this?” Chase inquires.

“Because,” Reuben responds softly, “I am still a contact for the Woodland Knights.”

Chase looks around to see if anyone heard what Reuben said, but if anyone did they show nothing to give themselves away. Chase begins to speak, but Reuben cuts him off by holding up a hand. He reaches into a pouch in his belt and pulls out a folded sheet of paper. He slides it across the table, whispering as he says, “This is from Master Kintar. I must be back to work, Chase. Good to see an old friend again.”

Reuben gets up from the table and heads behind the bar, leaving Chase alone with the letter in his hand. Before opening the letter he looks around, making sure no one had eavesdropped. To his right he sees several tables pushed together, with dozens of men crowding around to watch a few guys play Dice. Loud cheers erupt from the table as the next roll is made, and it appears that everyone around the table is focused solely upon the game in front of them. Up ahead are several tables, the only one remaining a mystery is the one in the opposite corner, the dim light not providing enough of a view to see if the chairs are all vacant. A few waitresses dressed in what barely passes for clothing scamper around the tavern with trays of drinks balancing upon their hands as they navigate the twists and turns through the crowds. Satisfied that no one is interested in him, Chase opens the letter and begins to read.

’To the former Protector of Freedom and Truth;

Dark times have once again fallen upon our fragile nation. The existence of our organization has faded into near nothingness. While we wane in numbers our opposition swells at an unbelievable rate. You once came to my aid many years ago when we needed it the most. I call upon you now to do the same once more. One of ours is meeting you here tonight, and will reveal themselves by ordering you a drink…’

Chase is interrupted suddenly by a young waitress, who sets down a tall frosty mug of Spiced Ale. Chase looks up at her as she says “Spiced Ale, delivered as promised,” and she walks away, leaving Chase to scratch his head over where the drink came from. He calls out to her and she comes back, leaning down while he responds.

“I didn’t order any Spiced Ale.”

“Look dahlin’, I just deliver the orders here. Take it up with the ‘keep if you don’t want it on yah tab.”

As she walks away he shakes his head, still befuddled by the incident, but decides to continue reading as he takes a swig of the frosty beverage in front of him.

’One of ours is meeting you here tonight, and will reveal themselves by ordering you a drink. As I do recall, your drink of choice has always been Spiced Ale, and they have been instructed to order this for you. Rendezvous with our agent and meet back at headquarters as soon as you can come. We are forever in your debt.

Sincerely yours,
An old friend.’

Chase sits back in his chair, pondering over what he just read. How typical of him to be quite vague in his choice of words, but Chase knows it is necessary. If the note were to fall into the wrong set of hands, it would be of little use to them. He glances around the room, looking for this mystery agent, but sees nothing out of the ordinary. He gets out of his chair and walks over to the bar, calling Reuben over to him, inquiring about the person who ordered the drink. Reuben motions for Chase to follow him and leads Chase to the next room, which is Reuben’s private study. Only one torch is lit within the room but, even in the poor lighting, Chase can see that someone is sitting in Reuben’s favorite red velvet armchair in the center of the room, but he cannot see who it is. Chase calls out a greeting as Reuben slips back out to the bar, leaving the two allies alone to get acquainted.