“I’ll be fine,” you say as you brush past the first guard and stand before the closed gate. You eye Lazy for a few seconds until he realizes that you are waiting for him to open the small door set in the larger gate. He shuffles over to the gate, fumbling for his keys as goes.
“Excuse me, sir,” he says as he steps in front of you to open the lock. After a few seconds more of trying to find the right key he inserts it into the padlock, turns the key and opens the door for you. “Be careful in there,” he says, shutting the door after you walk through. You can hear the padlock click closed on the other side, and then nothing.
You stand alone on the main thoroughfare. Nothing moves, the only sound the creaking of a tailor’s shingle hanging over his door to your right. The buildings around you are shuttered tight. You see light peeking out between the shutters in places but many more are dark and cold. Some of the larger buildings, inns and homes of the wealthy, have lights in their upper story windows. These are the lights you must have seen as you crossed the river on the ferry. You have never seen Evenbrook look as deserted as it does now; it’s as if nobody lives here.
You set off down the street. You are heading for an inn you know. You have stayed there many times. It is called the Lucky Duck. The food is mediocre, the bedding is old, stinky straw and the serving girls are all missing teeth to one degree or another. Even the time when you had lice probably originated from the Lucky Duck.
The Lucky Duck is not the worst inn around, but it is close. You prefer the Lucky Duck because of the atmosphere. There is always someone drunk enough to sing an off key (and off color) tune that you’ve never heard before. Fights are rare, and joviality is abundant. There is a feeling of community there that you never thought to feel anywhere other than Ralas Than. They welcome you as a fellow traveler and vagabond. And they don’t pry into your personal affairs.
You continue down the street and then take a left at a fountain with a statue depicting what you think is a man with a bird on his shoulder. The statue is so old and weather-worn that you've heard people argue about whether it was originally intended to be a woman or if the bird was actually a devil with bat wings. You leave the cobblestones for hard packed dirt. After a few minutes you take a right at a butcher’s shop and head north again, all the while keeping your eyes, ears and nose open for trouble. As you pass an alley filled with refuse on your right you hear the soft scuffing sound of feet coming from that way. You continue on, pretending to not have noticed. After all, you like doing things the fun way. And what’s more fun than ambushing your own would-be ambusher?
You continue on toward the Lucky Duck, all the while listening for more noise from behind you. As you pass by one of the many commons throughout the city you hear it again, this time from behind you and to the left. It sounds closer than before. That is amusing to you. Not many things can sneak up on you after you already know they are there, and this something managed to close the distance to what you estimate to be about ten feet.
As you continue walking you smoothly rest your right hand on the grip of your sword, hiding the action underneath your cloak. No sense in scaring off your fun with obvious signs of aggression. You hear the scuffing sound again, this time directly behind you and even closer still. You tighten your grip on your sword, contracting you muscles in preparation for a quick draw of your sword. Almost time, you tell yourself. The scuffing sound turns into the slapping sound of feet rushing towards you, your ambusher sure that he has the upper hand. One slap, two slaps, three slaps, Now! You turn to your right, drawing your sword in one smooth motion, ready for the kill and…
A strong hand grabs yours, forcing your sword back into its sheath. You look up, up, up into blue eyes above a shaggy brown beard, a dented steel helmet to top it all off. A tall muscular man stands in front of, his right hand gripping yours, his left hand holding an axe. Some sort of animal skin cloak covered in dark fur is draped over his shoulders, and he wears a dented breastplate obviously built for someone much smaller than him. He holds you hand in an iron grip, preventing you from drawing your sword, and you can feel your hand pop and crack as he squeezes.
He looks you in the eyes and, with a scowl on his face, asks, “Well, what are you going to do now, pointy ears?”
“Excuse me, sir,” he says as he steps in front of you to open the lock. After a few seconds more of trying to find the right key he inserts it into the padlock, turns the key and opens the door for you. “Be careful in there,” he says, shutting the door after you walk through. You can hear the padlock click closed on the other side, and then nothing.
You stand alone on the main thoroughfare. Nothing moves, the only sound the creaking of a tailor’s shingle hanging over his door to your right. The buildings around you are shuttered tight. You see light peeking out between the shutters in places but many more are dark and cold. Some of the larger buildings, inns and homes of the wealthy, have lights in their upper story windows. These are the lights you must have seen as you crossed the river on the ferry. You have never seen Evenbrook look as deserted as it does now; it’s as if nobody lives here.
You set off down the street. You are heading for an inn you know. You have stayed there many times. It is called the Lucky Duck. The food is mediocre, the bedding is old, stinky straw and the serving girls are all missing teeth to one degree or another. Even the time when you had lice probably originated from the Lucky Duck.
The Lucky Duck is not the worst inn around, but it is close. You prefer the Lucky Duck because of the atmosphere. There is always someone drunk enough to sing an off key (and off color) tune that you’ve never heard before. Fights are rare, and joviality is abundant. There is a feeling of community there that you never thought to feel anywhere other than Ralas Than. They welcome you as a fellow traveler and vagabond. And they don’t pry into your personal affairs.
You continue down the street and then take a left at a fountain with a statue depicting what you think is a man with a bird on his shoulder. The statue is so old and weather-worn that you've heard people argue about whether it was originally intended to be a woman or if the bird was actually a devil with bat wings. You leave the cobblestones for hard packed dirt. After a few minutes you take a right at a butcher’s shop and head north again, all the while keeping your eyes, ears and nose open for trouble. As you pass an alley filled with refuse on your right you hear the soft scuffing sound of feet coming from that way. You continue on, pretending to not have noticed. After all, you like doing things the fun way. And what’s more fun than ambushing your own would-be ambusher?
You continue on toward the Lucky Duck, all the while listening for more noise from behind you. As you pass by one of the many commons throughout the city you hear it again, this time from behind you and to the left. It sounds closer than before. That is amusing to you. Not many things can sneak up on you after you already know they are there, and this something managed to close the distance to what you estimate to be about ten feet.
As you continue walking you smoothly rest your right hand on the grip of your sword, hiding the action underneath your cloak. No sense in scaring off your fun with obvious signs of aggression. You hear the scuffing sound again, this time directly behind you and even closer still. You tighten your grip on your sword, contracting you muscles in preparation for a quick draw of your sword. Almost time, you tell yourself. The scuffing sound turns into the slapping sound of feet rushing towards you, your ambusher sure that he has the upper hand. One slap, two slaps, three slaps, Now! You turn to your right, drawing your sword in one smooth motion, ready for the kill and…
A strong hand grabs yours, forcing your sword back into its sheath. You look up, up, up into blue eyes above a shaggy brown beard, a dented steel helmet to top it all off. A tall muscular man stands in front of, his right hand gripping yours, his left hand holding an axe. Some sort of animal skin cloak covered in dark fur is draped over his shoulders, and he wears a dented breastplate obviously built for someone much smaller than him. He holds you hand in an iron grip, preventing you from drawing your sword, and you can feel your hand pop and crack as he squeezes.
He looks you in the eyes and, with a scowl on his face, asks, “Well, what are you going to do now, pointy ears?”