The barman froze, his eyes as wide as full moons before he composed himself. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he said before turning away to polish the casks behind him.

"I think that you do," Harken said.

The barman did not reply, his attention focused elsewhere. Harken felt his anger bubble up once more, this time harder to quell.

"You heard him," someone said, slapping a hand on Harken's shoulder. "No one ain't got work for your kind here, old man. Why don't you piss off before somebody gets hurt?"

"My kind?" Harken turned to the man speaking to him. Standing a few inches taller, the lanky frame of the man made him look like a skeleton wrapped in rough-spun clothes. He jabbed a finger into Harken's chest, his breath reeking of sour beer.

"You criminals keep pouring out of Therea like some kind of damned plague. What, were the dungeons already full or was the noose not good enough for you?" the man continued to goad Harken.

"I bet he pissed himself when they caught him," another man said from a nearby table. "Begged for the Judge's brand instead of facing the king's justice. Therea was always full of cowards."

The anger Harken tried to smother flared at that remark. It took everything he had to bite back a retort.

"Oh? Got nothing more to say? Maybe you're smarter than the other tattooed freaks." The reedy man turned his head towards the crowd. "At least, smart enough to keep your trap shut when you know what's best." The tavern erupted with laughter.

Before Harken had a chance to compose himself, the reedy man whipped back and punched him square in the gut.

Hot pain shot through Harken's body as he doubled over gasping for breath. He tried not to gag as his stomach wrenched, saliva pooling in his mouth.

"That's enough, Everett!" the barman barked. "I told you to stop causing trouble around here. If you want to fight, take it outside!"

"Trouble? No, no trouble here. Ain't that right?" Everett pushed Harken against the counter, smiling with drunken bravado. "Everyone knows his kind can't hurt us. Remember when the first Slayer came into town? Got too aggressive with the miller's wife and his head popped like a grape. Shame she died but goes to show just how little they can do to us. Weak little mongrels, cowed by the brand."

Harken turned away from Everett and grabbed the counter to pull himself up. The barman looked at him with concern before realizing that he didn't appear hurt. In fact, he was smiling.

"That's where you're wrong." Harken swiped the mug from the barman's hand and broke it over Everett's head. Blood splashed against the counter. Everett screamed, and Harken was upon him. He smashed his forehead into Everett's nose, kicked the drunk's feet out from under him and threw him against the counter top. Steel flashed from Harken's boot. Everyone froze at the knife he held against Everett's cheek.

After a moment of stunned silence someone from the crowd mustered the courage to speak. "Why...why ain't you dead? The other Slayers said they can't hurt the innocent."

"Then maybe you should learn not to assume things," Harken growled. He could hear Everett whimper as his blood pooled onto the counter top.

"How do you define innocence? How do you measure it? Weigh it? Can you answer that question, Everett?" Harken asked.

"I...I..." Everett began, but he was quickly hushed by the Slayer.

"You can't," Harken continued. "Not really. I learned that lesson quickly so I wouldn't have people like you thinking they had something over me." Harken pressed the knife a little harder against Everett's cheek until a sliver of blood appeared. "I wonder, do you think you're innocent enough that cutting off your ear could kill me?"

"By the stars no!" Everett cried, too afraid to move lest he lose more than just his ear. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean nothin'!"

Before Harken had a chance to reply the tavern door swung open and a voice boomed out. "Enough."

The word echoed in Harken's head like a crack of thunder and in an instant the anger within him dissipated, replaced with an odd sense of shame. He released Everett and sheathed the knife back into his boot. The drunk fell in a heap to the ground and quickly scrambled away.

An old man stood at the door, his hunched frame supported by a gnarled cane in his hands. Despite the distance between them, Harken could feel the old man's presence as if he were right in front of him. His tattoos began to itch.

"Your knowledge of the Laws are quite impressive. Harken was it?" The old man wheezed as he shuffled past the door into the tavern. Harken merely nodded in reply.

"Elder Benson, I didn't know you would be stopping by." The barman's voice quavered. He began wiping away the blood stain on the counter top. The Elder paid him no mind as he sized Harken up before smiling.

"I had a feeling someone was going to drop by today. Something in the air, maybe. A certain charge. You know how those summer winds like to bring in the travelers. Five years and counting, I'd say." Elder Benson gave a knowing smile towards the barman before he turned his attention back to Harken.

"I know why you are here Slayer, and I know you know as well. But..." Elder Benson stopped to look at Everett cowering in the corner. "I can't have you attacking the locals."

Despite the Elder's calm demeanor, Harken could feel a power roiling around them. It tugged and prodded at his tattoos like a cat playing with its food, feeling out the crime he had committed. Eventually it pulled away as if satisfied and the Elder smiled even deeper. "Come, Slayer. We have much to discuss."