Eccles
Ragged idiot in a trilby.
Snow lay thickly on the ground and continued to drift silently as four friends trudged through the dark streets of Gate Pass. Rumours of the Ragesian army’s imminent arrival were so rife that even on New Year’s Eve the streets lay empty and silent, and the tracks from the four’s footprints were the only trails leading through the western district of the small city.
However the four were still in relatively good humour. They were all of disparate races, though they blended into the populace of Gate Pass, they would probably look peculiar in other parts of the world.
“Oi, Tyr,” muttered a slim hide-clad elf from the back of the group, “There’s nothing down here apart from a few warehouses, stables, and - when did they close the Poison Apple?”
His outstretched finger pointed to a distant building, whose windows were boarded over and nailed fast. The wooden sign hung by only a single mounting over the door on which was attached a sheet of parchment.
Tarn, clad in clattering mail, squinted forwards.
“By her lady’s dark feathers, Grusalock,” he swore. “How do you see that? It’s all I can do to make out the building in this weather.”
To his side, kicking through the snow was a white-scaled draconic figure. Clad lightly in thin robes he was humming to himself as he enjoyed the frigid weather. Wisps of even colder air escaped his mouth as he grinned broadly at the squat muscular orcish figure ahead of them.
“Listen to the poor half elf,” he crowed. “I tell you, Tyr, he wishes he was back in his mother’s kitchen warming himself at the fire – we’re only going to the pub for New Years’ and he’s insisted in putting on his full metal skin!”
He reached out to rap on the plate whilst Tyr and Grusalock grinned at him; then the half-orc frowned at the doors as they grew nearer.
“You’re right, elf,” he growled. “We were supposed to meet Torrent before midnight to allow us to take some action before the Ragesians army gets here. Word is that some fool on the Council wants to open the gates to the inquisitors.”
Despite his frosty heritage, Wingwrath the dragonborn shuddered and stared at the half orc, but the others were exchanging glances with one another.
“Tyr, you’re not dragging us into one of your mad plans again, are you?” Grusalock was frowning at the thought. “Last time you took us roof running you said it was all a complicated bet, and we turned out to be chasing a Shahalesti agent.”
“And I got into trouble with the commander for letting you into the military stables,” nodded Tarn.
“This is important,” said Tyr as he shuffled his booted feet in the snow. “Look, let’s just check it out and see if our contact is up there waiting for us and maybe we can get a pint or two somewhere else.”
Grudgingly, the others followed him to the doors of the pub, where they noticed that light was spilling around the boarded windows. The parchment, flapping in the breeze, filled them with concern.
Official Notice
Trehan Finner
Owner of the Poison Apple Pub
Has been taken into temporary custody under the protection of the city guard until such time that representatives of the Ragesian Empire can question and find him / her innocent of hostile collusion.
The Poison Apple Pub
is hereby closed until further notice.
The companions looked around in sudden concern – even Wingwrath suddenly feeling the cold as he saw the stamp of the mage-hunting Ragesian Inquisition affixed to the bottom of the parchment.
Muttering something about “instructions”, Tyr stepped around to a narrow alleyway to the side of the building and knocked on a side door whilst Grusalock narrowed his elven eyes and looked around suspiciously.
As Tyr knocked, the door was wrenched open by a tall white haired woman, who looked down a ling tanned nose at the half-orc’s fanged face. She wore blue enamelled armour crafted with a wave motif, and had a wavy-bladed blue-steel battleaxe belted to her waist.
She smiled in approval. “You must be Tyr and his companions. I am Torrent. I was told to expect you at this hour. Come.”
Following the woman’s imperious gesture, the group entered the barroom to find it in complete disarray. A bust of Emperor Coaltongue sat upon the bar and surveyed the scene; tables and chairs heaped to one side and blocking a doorway.
Several chairs and a table had clearly been hauled from the pile and a lantern burned brightly on a squat barrel to one side.
Lifting the lantern onto the table, Torrent broached the top of the barrel with her axe, and gestured that the companions should find mugs either behind the bar or in the pile of debris. Once everyone had a drink, she continued speaking.
“Just because we’re about to go to war,” she smiled ruefully, “there’s no reason not to celebrate New Year.”
The five talked about times and sank their tankards into the barrel as the bells of the city rang in the New Year.
As the town outside fell silent once again, Torrent leaned back in her chair and signed bitterly.
“I guess it’s time to get down to business. The city is in trouble. The Ragesians will most likely be here in strength tomorrow. I used to study at a place named the Lyceum in Seaquen, and I have been sent word from them that they are willing to take a stand against the Ragesians. We need to get word to them; in the ordinary course of events we would send a teleporting courier, but there is something interfering with them. Perhaps the work of the Ragesians, but our last courier arrived with us screaming and burning, his message dying with him.
“We cannot go overland; the city gates have been closed and several idiots on the council want to invite the inquisitors into the city. There’s some indication that they may be here already, and the gates have been closed to stop people from escaping – though members of the military can still get in and out.
“We also have a task tonight; we need to meet the gnome Riverii Badgerface – he has a case containing a number of Ragesian battle plans. We need to meet him at the depository half a mile or so away, and then we need to get the plans out of the city with all due haste.”
As she glanced around the table at the young men before her, she could read most of their faces easily enough – Tyr would do all he could to assist the resistance; Tarn was eager for adventure and to do what he could in his perceived duty to thwart the invaders; Wingwrath Winterborn would want to escape the city ahead of the inquisition. Grusalock, however, was looking up at the ceiling, and pointed up at a wisp of dust which was falling from the rafters. The elf placed a slender hand to one pointed ear and gestured both upwards and out to the street. Straining her senses, Torrent realised that she could hear the faint crunching of boots in the snow and the muffled jingle of a covered harness.
Then came a shout from outside.
“Front door! Go!”
There was a sudden crash as something heavy was smashed into the pub’s door.
However the four were still in relatively good humour. They were all of disparate races, though they blended into the populace of Gate Pass, they would probably look peculiar in other parts of the world.
“Oi, Tyr,” muttered a slim hide-clad elf from the back of the group, “There’s nothing down here apart from a few warehouses, stables, and - when did they close the Poison Apple?”
His outstretched finger pointed to a distant building, whose windows were boarded over and nailed fast. The wooden sign hung by only a single mounting over the door on which was attached a sheet of parchment.
Tarn, clad in clattering mail, squinted forwards.
“By her lady’s dark feathers, Grusalock,” he swore. “How do you see that? It’s all I can do to make out the building in this weather.”
To his side, kicking through the snow was a white-scaled draconic figure. Clad lightly in thin robes he was humming to himself as he enjoyed the frigid weather. Wisps of even colder air escaped his mouth as he grinned broadly at the squat muscular orcish figure ahead of them.
“Listen to the poor half elf,” he crowed. “I tell you, Tyr, he wishes he was back in his mother’s kitchen warming himself at the fire – we’re only going to the pub for New Years’ and he’s insisted in putting on his full metal skin!”
He reached out to rap on the plate whilst Tyr and Grusalock grinned at him; then the half-orc frowned at the doors as they grew nearer.
“You’re right, elf,” he growled. “We were supposed to meet Torrent before midnight to allow us to take some action before the Ragesians army gets here. Word is that some fool on the Council wants to open the gates to the inquisitors.”
Despite his frosty heritage, Wingwrath the dragonborn shuddered and stared at the half orc, but the others were exchanging glances with one another.
“Tyr, you’re not dragging us into one of your mad plans again, are you?” Grusalock was frowning at the thought. “Last time you took us roof running you said it was all a complicated bet, and we turned out to be chasing a Shahalesti agent.”
“And I got into trouble with the commander for letting you into the military stables,” nodded Tarn.
“This is important,” said Tyr as he shuffled his booted feet in the snow. “Look, let’s just check it out and see if our contact is up there waiting for us and maybe we can get a pint or two somewhere else.”
Grudgingly, the others followed him to the doors of the pub, where they noticed that light was spilling around the boarded windows. The parchment, flapping in the breeze, filled them with concern.
Official Notice
Trehan Finner
Owner of the Poison Apple Pub
Has been taken into temporary custody under the protection of the city guard until such time that representatives of the Ragesian Empire can question and find him / her innocent of hostile collusion.
The Poison Apple Pub
is hereby closed until further notice.
The companions looked around in sudden concern – even Wingwrath suddenly feeling the cold as he saw the stamp of the mage-hunting Ragesian Inquisition affixed to the bottom of the parchment.
Muttering something about “instructions”, Tyr stepped around to a narrow alleyway to the side of the building and knocked on a side door whilst Grusalock narrowed his elven eyes and looked around suspiciously.
As Tyr knocked, the door was wrenched open by a tall white haired woman, who looked down a ling tanned nose at the half-orc’s fanged face. She wore blue enamelled armour crafted with a wave motif, and had a wavy-bladed blue-steel battleaxe belted to her waist.
She smiled in approval. “You must be Tyr and his companions. I am Torrent. I was told to expect you at this hour. Come.”
Following the woman’s imperious gesture, the group entered the barroom to find it in complete disarray. A bust of Emperor Coaltongue sat upon the bar and surveyed the scene; tables and chairs heaped to one side and blocking a doorway.
Several chairs and a table had clearly been hauled from the pile and a lantern burned brightly on a squat barrel to one side.
Lifting the lantern onto the table, Torrent broached the top of the barrel with her axe, and gestured that the companions should find mugs either behind the bar or in the pile of debris. Once everyone had a drink, she continued speaking.
“Just because we’re about to go to war,” she smiled ruefully, “there’s no reason not to celebrate New Year.”
The five talked about times and sank their tankards into the barrel as the bells of the city rang in the New Year.
As the town outside fell silent once again, Torrent leaned back in her chair and signed bitterly.
“I guess it’s time to get down to business. The city is in trouble. The Ragesians will most likely be here in strength tomorrow. I used to study at a place named the Lyceum in Seaquen, and I have been sent word from them that they are willing to take a stand against the Ragesians. We need to get word to them; in the ordinary course of events we would send a teleporting courier, but there is something interfering with them. Perhaps the work of the Ragesians, but our last courier arrived with us screaming and burning, his message dying with him.
“We cannot go overland; the city gates have been closed and several idiots on the council want to invite the inquisitors into the city. There’s some indication that they may be here already, and the gates have been closed to stop people from escaping – though members of the military can still get in and out.
“We also have a task tonight; we need to meet the gnome Riverii Badgerface – he has a case containing a number of Ragesian battle plans. We need to meet him at the depository half a mile or so away, and then we need to get the plans out of the city with all due haste.”
As she glanced around the table at the young men before her, she could read most of their faces easily enough – Tyr would do all he could to assist the resistance; Tarn was eager for adventure and to do what he could in his perceived duty to thwart the invaders; Wingwrath Winterborn would want to escape the city ahead of the inquisition. Grusalock, however, was looking up at the ceiling, and pointed up at a wisp of dust which was falling from the rafters. The elf placed a slender hand to one pointed ear and gestured both upwards and out to the street. Straining her senses, Torrent realised that she could hear the faint crunching of boots in the snow and the muffled jingle of a covered harness.
Then came a shout from outside.
“Front door! Go!”
There was a sudden crash as something heavy was smashed into the pub’s door.
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