Part I- Encounter at the Tavern

Nameless villages weren't uncommon in Celdin. They dotted the landscape, these small, unimportant settlements. Typically housed three or four families, they always came equipped with some sort of drinking establishment.

In one such a village, the local tavern was mostly empty, aside from a few travel-weary patrons. The first was an elvish woman who sat at a table in the corner, her sharp eyes unfocused as she idly twirled a crossbow bolt in her nimble fingers. her hair was long and blond, pulled away from her face in a braid that fell down her back. She was dressed in form-fitting black leather armor with a single hand crossbow strapped to her hip. Pockets lined her armor and she had a small traveling sack resting on the table where she sat. her face was impassive, she was obviously too busy thinking to worry about her surroundings.

The second was a large dwarf, who was all but near unconscious at the bar, a large, empty tankard of what appeared to be mead grasped in his meaty palm. He was bearded, like most of his kin, and had on well-worn splint mail that would no doubt turn most weapons. A large, battered great-sword rested near his feet, his weapon, most likely. The dwarf sat up, scratching at the back of his neck and sniffed twice then belched extra loudly. Apparently pleased with himself, he went back to his previous position which was him resting his broad forehead on the bar counter.

The barkeep was another dwarf, preoccupied with polishing the flagons to pay much mind to his customers. The candle light was dim as it was still a long ways from dusk and the hearth was cold. The subtle tranquility of the tavern was shattered when the heavy wooden door was forced open, a large shadow blocking off the sunlight that would've spilled in. The sound of heavy footfalls was the noise that pulled the elf woman out of her trance, the bolt she was twirling clattering to the floor. The dwarf spared a withering glare over his shoulder but quickly returned his forehead to the counter top.

The newcomer took a seat at a table near the door, the old wooden chair groaning in protest at his weight. He was a human, but his build and hooded face could have easily misplaced him as an Orc. Chain-mail that seemed to be in surprisingly good condition was what he was garbed in, offset heavily by his tattered hood and traveling cloak. A large bastard sword was strapped to his back which also appeared to be in good condition. His boots, however, were old and covered in mud, no doubt from days of traveling. He said nothing, hunching over in his seat.

The dwarf didn't seem to have any intention of moving but the elf was a different story. Slyly sliding out of her seat, she strutted her way over to the stranger, her nimble fingers drumming against her thigh.

She stood behind him, placing one delicate hand on his broad shoulder. "Haven't seen you around before..." the elf spoke demurely. Bending over so her breath tickled his ear, she asked: "What's your name?" Her other hand silently slid downward, aiming to pick his pocket.

The man seemed unaffected by her charms and instead grew increasingly aware of her questing hand. Knowing the sly elf's motives immediately, he rose, knocking her hand away and towering over her. He stood so suddenly, that the table he was sitting at rose with him and then fell to floor, the ancient wood splintering like matchsticks.

"Just what the hell do you think your doing?" the man growled, his voice like thunder. The air around him seem to quiver and blur out of focus and all the now-quivering elf could do was open and close her mouth uselessly like a landed fish. The hooded man's hand reached for his obscenely large weapon and the elf held up her hands in mock surrender.

The dwarf now seemed extremely interested in the pair, having turned around, his bushy eyebrows rising in intrigue. The barkeep seemed like he wished to say something but the imposing figure in the hood quelled any worry he might have voiced.

"Just being friendly is all" the elf assured him, somehow managing to put on an endearing smile.

"Well don't" the man spat, taking his seat again despite the lack of a table. "Touch me again and the hand comes off."

"We're....uh..all civil here, yeah?" the dwarf behind the bar piped up, his voice coming out as a humorous squeak.

"Oye, oye!" the dwarf nursing the empty tankard finally spoke up. "C'mon, no need to be so grumpy! Lets just relax an' 'ave a good ole drink, yeah?" He banged his tankard on the counter again and the other dwarf was happy to busy himself, filling the cup quickly. The dwarf took a large gulp and the foam clung to his beard. "All friends, ya see?" that heart-warming statement was followed by a loud belch.

The elf cleared her throat and glanced around nervously before speaking. "Raina Shadowblade."

The man glared up at her from under his hood. "What?"

"My name, Raina Shadowblade. If I'm going to ask your name then I should at least give you mine." Her charming grin had returned, not that it seemed to have any noticeable effect on the human.

"If I tell you mine will you leave me alone?"

"Maybe."

"Lazarus Crane."

"So...where are you from? What brings you here, Lazarus?" Raina took a seat opposite to him, also seemingly ignoring the lack of a table.

"That is none of your damn business, sneak thief" Lazarus growled.

"Morngrim!" The dwarf bellowed drunkenly from his stool.

"What?" Raina and Lazarus voiced at the same time, which was oddly humorous

"That's my name!" Morngrim said cheerfully. "I figured, we was doin' sum sharin' is all!"

Raina felt a smile tug at her lips at the drunk's antics, where Lazarus's only response was a deeper scowl.

There was something almost akin to companionship floating in the air above the three, although that notion is completely absurd. After all, these three people had absolutely nothing in common and their goals varied so differently. This queer tranquility was shattered when the door to the tavern was unceremoniously kicked in and three brutish looking men entered.

All three of them were human and clad in dented and worn-out looking armor. They bore rusty weapons and each of them had a surly grin plastered to their respective ugly mugs. The one that appeared to be their leader stepped forward, his small, piggish eyes roaming over all of the tavern's occupants.

"Well, well must be my lucky day. Some'ow all three of ya ended up in the same place." His great-sword strapped to his back was unsheathed and he held it in front of himself, an offensive stance. "The Masked Legion sends their regards."

At the words Masked Legion all three of the tavern dwellers stiffened in surprise. Then, they all glanced at each other wordlessly. Nothing needed to be said as they unsheathed their weapons.

''Sometimes a lifelong covenant can be formed by the simplest of means. ''