Caedan’s metallic grey gaze swept across the crowd of people. Unusual. At a fairly late point in the day, it should have been mostly middle-aged drunk men with their problems, and perhaps a family or two who couldn’t afford to keep a house. The stray traveler or gypsy, maybe a merchant or a trader or two. But this… this was truly a crowd, something an inn would be lucky to have in the daytime. And though they had stiffened as he’d walked in, then appeared to relax, he noticed a certain tense anticipation in their shoulders, a sneakiness to the way their eyes slid over the other occupants. His heartbeat sped up as his stomach flipped, unbearable adrenaline surging suddenly through his veins and sending his heart into overtime until it hummed in his ears. Something bad was going to happen. He drew deeper into the shadows of his cloak until even the light reflecting off the whites of his eyes shone no longer, only a faint glow of the diffused golden light spread around the room like too much butter. One calloused hand shifted grip and grasped the handle of a long-bladed knife ever tighter, his knuckles whitening around the leather-wrapped hilt. All instincts screamed at him.
Get out, get out.
He had to leave. Immediately. His breath caught in his throat as a movement caught his attention, and the cool silver of his gaze skipped over to a pair of burly men rising unobtrusively, but the way they slinked towards the entrance and stood there, as if in deep conversation, told him that escape wouldn’t be that easy. He shouldn’t have come here. He was glad for his unsuspecting corner, shrouded deeply in shadow as his heart tumbled frantically around his chest, adrenaline beating and beating against him as the feeling of missing a step on the stairs surged through him again and again. The tip of his sword’s sheath scraped softly against the warm hardwood floor as he shifted to the edge of his seat, the worn wood uncushioned groaning faintly. Jaff, perched serenely on his shoulder, was tense for all his apparent calmness. He and his friend knew each other like nothing else, a bond shared by all three of their strange little family. “Still, Jaff,” Caedan clicked under his breath, and the hawk knew to relax. But in the rising tension of the once-friendly little inn, it wasn’t enough. Desperately his gaze raked across the sea of people, deceptively calm in their deceit, trying to find a way out. No, he never should have come. He’d always been too trusting. But a voice whispered in the back of his mind. It was the right thing. You knew what you were doing. But he didn’t believe himself. Even the wisest were fools sometimes. And certainly, that was to be his fate.
His eyes screeched to a halt, drawn suddenly to a table of four. A trembling grey gaze bored into them, widening in shock. He knew instantly with a rush of sudden clarity, that these four people, two men, two women- were the others the letter had spoken of. The words, ink carved into cream parchment, burned in his mind’s eye; You will not be alone. And indeed he wasn’t. Two women, two men. Adding Caedan, that would make them an even five. Purposefully? He knew better than to assume where assumptions shouldn’t be made however; and this room, with its tense and relaxed undercurrent of hostility, was a better example than anything. He itched to up and leave. His every instinct burned fierce adrenaline like fire through his veins, power to get out of any situation- but he stayed. His gaze skimmed, caught and tumbled over the little group, the table’s four occupants.
A tall man slouched with dark hair interrupted only by a single silvery streak; Caedan could see the bright green of his eyes from here, and he supposed that from a woman’s point he wouldn’t be unattractive, but there was something off about him that sent a warning thrill in his stomach. A sweet-featured reddish blonde woman with a soft smile and a friendly manner. Caedan didn’t doubt she would be the peacemaker of the group, the friendly one. But what did he know. A slender, somewhat bedraggled red-headed woman whose vibrant fiery hair stood out like white against black; yet apart from appearances he had trouble distinguishing a certain feature from her… yet. And the last; a tall, dark stranger, with a pale mask covering each and every feature of his face... mysterious. A certain extra pull in his already thrumming heart let Caedan know he wasn’t entirely human, and against his will his eyes widened slightly in surprise. The mask was to hide the markings of a hybrid, perhaps? He thought he’d know if the man was of pure Ancient blood. The static magic energy crackling between the men in the inn rose the hair on the back of his neck.
And there were Runes.
Beautiful, intricate, fascinating Rune dragons. His breath froze in his throat as his heart ached for them; a tide of memories pushed against the barriers in his mind, but he held strong and with an effort, pushed thoughts of that way. He couldn’t think of the past right now; at the moment, the present was too precarious. It appeared no one knew what was happening; as they passed a letter around the table, he couldn’t help the tilt of his head in that direction. Was it the old letter, that someone had lost and needed to read again? Or was it a completely new one? Was the sender even among them? Semi-consciously he found his hand slipping over the smooth surface of the envelope broken only by the severed wax seal; inside his pocket, the letter rested safely in its envelope.
In one brief, startling moment, he turned to find the bright birchleaf gaze of one of the young women rested curiously on him. With a pang he noticed her two Runes. A certain kind of intrigue was held in the shimmering shades of green and gold held swirling within her eyes as hazel met bright grey. He tensed immediately, warily, but he knew- or hoped- that she would hardly be able to make out the features of his face, drawn into the shadows as he was with his hood pulled over his head. The only thing truly standing out being the tip of his sword sheath and the various pommels of his knives as they glimmered back reflected light from the all too cheery setting. All else would hopefully rest in shadowed darkness; he couldn’t give too much away about himself when he didn’t know these people. He had been in Singleshire only recently, and that was why he’d been allowed to return so quickly; he was simply too well known. If he and the four ever actually met up, he would have to decide whether to give them his real name or not.
But he knew one thing; it was not safe to stay here. They had to leave. And though the pair of men were still standing at the entrance to the inn, he knew it was worth a try. Anything was worth a try. One simply had to believe they could do it. A lot of anything had to do with the state of one’s mind; a runner might be in top condition but believe they weren’t, and because of that they could only ever run as fast as they mistakenly believed they could.
He only hoped the four would follow. He could slip out himself a lot easier than with other people hanging on to his tail, but he knew he had to do this. He’d come too far already to let himself down now.
And with that, he stood up; a singly, fluid movement, but perhaps the stupidest one he could have made.
Immediately, a ripple of quietness flowed over the crowd and they stilled, tensed, all eyes turning to him. Only several quiet murmurs remained, bubbling softly in the background like a forgotten fountain, tuned out by the fantasies of the reader’s mind. Hand on the hilt of his sword to keep it completely vertical, he walked slowly, carefully towards the counter. Silently, the people shifted to let him pass. “Water, please,” he murmured, tossing a couple coins onto the scuffed wooden surface that were snatched quickly away. Every eye was on him. As he pivoted on one heel and appeared to turn back in the direction of his seat, his eyes flickered briefly over the table of four. I’m helping you, or attempting to, so take this chance, he wanted to say. But he judged it might not be a good idea to convey messages to the three Runes yet.
Hoping that they realized what he was doing, he walked towards the two men at the entrance, supple leather boots whispering across the wooden floor, one knife faintly clinking against another. Jaff was wide awake and still as a statue, but his talons threatened to pierce the fabric of Caedan’s coat. He could sense how dangerous a situation this was. The two men, tall and burly, stepped in his way.
“Where do ye think yer goin’?” one of them asked languidly, taking a sip of whatever they had in their mugs; spiced ale, most likely. He could catch a whiff of it on their breath. Every sense was on a livewire at the moment.
“Leaving,” he said simply, silver eyes drawing up to meet the murky brown ones of the man who had spoken. His voice was quiet, as always, but a certain determination rang in the lilt of his voice and he saw the man’s expression relax slightly and then harden again as the two men sized each other up.
“I don’ think that’s a good idea, sonny boy,” the other man guffawed, and suddenly they reached for him at the same exact moment a flood of movement burst from the little table of four.
Sonny boy? Caedan thought, and then he ducked, slipping beneath one’s hands to appear on the other side, knives whirling into his hands. Jaff let out a brief screech of protest and flapped his impressive wingspan for balance, but hung grimly on as the two came out with weapons of their own; a thick quarterstaff and a hatchet. Why a hatchet? he would have thought idly, if not for the situation. Probably the only thing the man had on him, yet he must be good with one after all to have been chosen to guard the door. It appeared the townsfolk had been expecting them. Yet at the masked man fought against a couple patrons, time seemed to take a deep, shaky breath, and became irregular, the electric charge of magic crackling and hissing through the air. He should have known. He could sense the dark magic seeping against the other hybrid’s, trying get under his defense. These people were corrupted.
But he couldn’t worry about that at the moment; more and more townsfolk were advancing upon Caedan and he was forced into action. From his vantage point near the door, it wouldn’t have been hard to escape without having to fight the whole lot of them, but he had people to worry about as well; the other three hadn’t been spurred into movement yet and he couldn’t help but worry about the two women, hoping instead they would just try to melt into the shadows and safely escape. He knew it wouldn’t be that easy.
Lunging with the grace of a snake his long-bladed knife reached out to stab a man before he could react; slipping beneath another’s guard to barely avoid being clipped with his dagger a slash to the chest was enough to drop him. He turned and didn’t have time to breath before raising a blade to counter an attack, but with his second knife he drove the cold steel hilt-deep into the man’s sternum and watched him slump off the blade. He was able to fight them easily enough; his instincts and skill trained by the wilderness and long hours of practice lent him an air of comfort and ability with weapons that many would never gain; however he was not inclined to be foolish, and knew that with the amount of men advancing on him, milling around and pressing in to take their turn in the fight, he would eventually be overridden. There was no choice. The people were innocent, but corrupted, and at the moment their sole purpose was to murder the little group, or at the very least Caedan and the masked man. He had a feeling they weren’t inclined to be friendly to the Runes, either. And with a brief pang of regret he stabbed a man and left the knife in, leaving one hand free to draw his sword. He was unable to avoid slaying a man in the very act of pulling the weapon from its sheath, and now he was finding it easier and easier to scythe through the mostly untrained townsfolk, dangerous as their numbers were. Their size was the real problem; Caedan was used to enduring, but they pressed in on him from all sides and was never able to take a breath before turning to parry and counter the next advance.
He called to the third man from across the room, hoping and praying to whatever gods existed that over the shouts and cries of fighting and dying men, that he would hear. “Try to help the women!” He hadn’t trusted the shady-looking man on sight, but there was no choice; he was in the little letter-bearing group and Caedan had no choice but to at least partially rely on him. A short hiss drew from his clenched teeth as a blade cut just below the joint of his shoulder and arm, but years of survival let him thankfully not drop his sword. Yet he could feel the warm blood seeping through his torn sleeve. He would have tried to help the women out himself, but he was too far away; the best he could do at the moment was keep cutting down the men and even the odd woman or two, yet hating himself for it all the same.
Guest Wed Sep 19, 2012 7:20 pm
It's all good!
