The Broken Bottle

Alaric stared at his ale with distain. It was not the drink that caused his nose to wrinkle under the hood of cloak, though one could understand if it were. Judging by the murkiness of his reflection in the chipped and cracked mug before him, his drink was little more than trough water with a splash of ale, a far cry from, 'the finest brew in the kingdom' the tavern keeper, a short man with wispy grey hair and a thin brown beard, had promised. For only two copper pieces, the quality, or rather lack there of, was to be expected. No, what bothered Alaric was finding himself in such an establishment at all.

His first choice would have been Madame Katerin's Gentlemenly Establishment in the capitol suburbs of Angleford. Despite not being one for the relentless pursuit of female companionship, Alaric found Madame Katerin's to be an ideal place of business. Noise was kept to a tolerable level, but patrons could be counted on to keep their attention elsewhere. Proximety to the capitol ensured access to the finer things in life while staying far enough away from the capitol city of Acroteri proper to avoid the prying eyes of the more numerous city guard. Additionally, his many visits to her establishment and generous tips without requesting the usual services had made him a favorite among the mistresses and garnered the trust of Madame Katerin herself. Over the years they had come to a mutually beneficial business arangment consisting of safe haven from prying eyes and the sharing of secrets.

Unfortunately, his contact, Wolfrick, a reliable matchmaker for clients seeking his services, had insisted on The Broken Bottle, a dingy run down tavern at the edge of human civilization in the remote town of Arborville. Alaric doubted the town would be on any map if it were not a rest stop along the Northern Route. Despite one of the largest trade routes running through the town, Arborville remained small and poverty stricken. The result was a tavern furnished with tables and chairs missing chunks of unfinished wood and sporting large gashes and scratches, dispensing ale (if it could be called that) to patrons who continually blamed their problems on the other races of the world until someone too deep in their cups inevitablly started an all emcompassing fight over some trivial matter. Accordingly, Alaric had not set his high goals for the night. As long as he could conclude his business before the drunkeness of the room exceeded the low manners of its patrons thereby attracting the attention of the few soldiers stationed in the square outside, this unsavory din would suffice.

Alaric checked his pocket watch for what seemed the tenth time that night. His dark eyes flitted toward the door, his agitation and sense of unease growing with every tick of the watch. It was not unusual for potential clients to be late. Nor was it unusual for a client to offer well above the going rate for his services. Many sought him out of desperation or had too much coin to care if they overpaid. The venue was also not unusual even if it was undesirable. Most of his clients thought a rarely visited hovel with few soldiers the perfect place to conduct their business. This was the source of his apprehension. A client offering as much as this ought to have considerable means and the experience to know better than to pick a place such as The Broken Bottle to discreetly finalize their business. Such was his suspicions, he had threatened to call off the meeting. In the end he only agreed to hear the client because of Wolfrick's flawless reputation, a point he had been sure to impress upon him when he picked the time. Assurances had been given, but now as the sky dimmed almost to darkness, the tavern only visible by flickering torch and candlelight, his contact and client remained absent.

Yet someone had gone to considerable trouble to bring him here...

Alaric made to leave then paused. Patience, a voice in his head urged. This would not be the first time a contact had been late. Clients were often untimely, resisting the corraling efforts of the contact, either intentionally as a show of power or by accident through poor planning. Either way it would be a shame to miss out on such a commission. Besides, he still had yet to learn the exact nature of the requested service and his curiousity demanded satisfaction. Five more minutes would be no inconvenience.

Having decided to stay a little longer but unwilling to drink the swill in his mug, Alaric decided to engage in his lifelong hobby of people watching. The candles on each table and the torches greedily flickering on the walls provided just enought light for him to spot the pointed ears of a small party of elves doing their best to avoid attention. Only the small points in their hoods and the occassional snippet of elvish floating over the low roar of the tavern gave them away. Most of the other tables were taken by human regulars, complaining about their jobs and wives.

A pair of long dark cloaks along the back wall proved the only anomally. They wispered fervently, drinks forgotten, only pausing to reach for their belts when the occassional bellow echoed through the tavern. Once reassured of safety, they returned to their hushed conversation. Every movement was methodical and smooth. Only the slight, but sharp peaks in their hoods indicated the reason for their cautious behavior. The peaks came in pairs too high above their heads to be pointed ears. More likely they were caused by spiraling horns atop their dark red or black scaled heads making this pair fiends. Though fiends could be expected to travel through Arborville along the Northern Route from their capitol of Eren Flaën, they were wise to take such precautions. Failure to do so could spark the tavern encompassing race brawl Alaric hoped to avoid.

The most troubling patrons had taken residence at the bar in the form of a group of four humans sitting around a brute of a man roaring with drunken laughter. They heartily clapped each other on the shoulders, sending drinks sloshing from their mugs. With little regard for the bartender wiping the spilled drinks with a moulded rag or anyone nearby, they clanked their mugs together. Most of the other patrons seemed familiar with their antics and slowly inched away from the group or whispered to friends before paying their tabs and slipping out the door. Growing numbers of furtive looks in their direction confirmed Alaric's fears. More likely than not, these men would be the ones to start the chaos of the night and judging by the daggers loosely fastened to their hips, they intended to make the most of it.

Alaric turned away from the bar to contemplate his reflection staring up at him. A few inches shorter than average with a lean, unassuming stature, he brought little attention to himself, a feat most men would secretly despise. But Alaric enjoyed the ability to flit from town to town without being noticed. To aid this effort, he wore a dark cloak, concealing dark eyes and darker hair, ensuring he remained out of sight. Should that fail, he could rely on his youthful good looks, charming smile, and modest coin pouch. If trouble persisted he had his own dagger, a simple yet sharp blade set in a black leather hilt, concealed in the breast pocket of his cloak.

Of course in his line of work he was no stranger to such means. This skill set was often what clients paid for. In the early years after he left the orphanage, pickpocketing and stealing for the desperate were all he could manage. As he grew so did his skillset. By the time he reached manhood a few years later, his client base had swelled enough to allow him to provide a higher level of service for a more exclusive clientelle. Extra legal aquisitions were his specialty but for the right price his resume also included forging and planting documents, intimidation, and once or twice the removal of a low level beauracrat at the behest of his or her opponent.

Alaric strummed his chin. Of all the services this job might require he found the last most likely. Politics had provided his most profitable jobs and for good reason. Even forging incriminating documents for a political adversary drew unwanted attention, requiring a hasty retreat to the shadows. Thus it would be some time before he could risk the watchful eyes of the soldiers and townspeople to take on another job. But another politically motivated client, especially one willing to pay what his contact had suggested, could provide Alaric the ticket out of this life, an escape he had sought shortly after he started. He could set up a legitimate shop near the capitol. Not bad for roughly seventeen and growing up on the streets.

As savory as such a vision was, Alaric doubted his fortune. Unprecidented peace and prosperity across the kingdoms of Eromír brought with them job security for the political elite of Acroteri. Even if it had not, summer was the wrong time of year for political work. Elections would not be held until the late fall and early winter. So what service could be requested of him to elicit such a sum?

Such was his curiousity, he might have remained lost in thought for hours, had the squeaking of the tavern door not roused him. Alaric swiveled toward the source of the noise, fully expecting to see the late arrival of his contact and latest client. Instead, he beheld a rather baffling sight.

A disheveled figure sqeezed his way between a drunken pair of old men staggering into the night. He pulled his hood down to reveal sharply pointed ears, but his nose lacked the long sharpness of an elf. His skin tone also lacked the vibrant glow of an elf, though it was difficult to tell from his dirt covered frame.Even so, it seemed more likely he was half elf, half human. Over his shoulders he wore a red traveling cloak covered in dirt, moss, and frayed holes. In his right hand he clutched a solid staff with a thick prickly green vine spiraling its length to wrap around the large knot at the top.

The door closed behind him with a bang, an echoing thunderclap in the silence that had fallen over the tavern. All eyes snapped onto him like hungry wolves sizing up their prey. Many wrinkled their noses at as he strode passed. When he reached the bar, the largest of the drunks set down his mug, lip curling with revolsion.

"One room please," the half-elf said, seemingly unaware of the deafening silence his presence caused.

The tavern keeper paused mid swipe of his rag. A single thin eyebrow rose. He cocked his head questioningly toward the large man at the bar. Alaric felt his stomach tighten, hoping the half-elf would see reason even as his hand slowly crept toward his breast pocket.

"Move along," the man at the bar grunted.

"Sorry?" the half-elf frowned.

"Move along," the brute grunted again, bearing jagged, yellow teeth. "You don' belong here."

"I don't want any trouble," the half-elf said, finally grasping the seriousness of the situation. "I just need a room for the night."

"I guess you better keep lookin then," the brute said.

"There isn't another tavern or inn for half a day's journey. I-".

The brute slid out of his chair in suprisingly steady fashion for someone so inerbriated. Behind him the four other men rose in a slightly less elegant fashion. All five reached for the dull dagger hilts at their waists. Alaric let his finger curl around the hilt of his own blade. He leaned forward in his chair, tensing for the inevitable.

"You should've left when you-,"

The brute trailed off, interrupted by the squeaking of the tavern door signaling another arrival, an elf the likes of which Alaric, and certainly the rest of the tavern, had never seen. With the grace only an elf could posses, she slipped between the crowded tables. Bright green eyes glowed beneath her vibrant aqua cloak. A long golden braid wound its way to the small of her back. A ring sparkled on the index finger of her right hand. What little patches of her skin Alaric could see glowed like moonbeams. In her wake she left only the scent of lavender and drooling men with lustful gazes.

"Hey, pretty lady," the brute said, his victim completely forgotten. "Let me buy you a drink."

The elf ignored his advance. Heads turned to follow her as she continued weaving her way between tables, floating toward the tavern keeper. With the hungry eyes of a famished predator, the brute watched her draw near. Once she was close enough, he pounced. A thick, muscular arm shot toward her. Before she could yelp in surprise he was pulling her into him. She desparately pushed against him but to no avail. With a lazy flick of his other arm, he flipped her hood back, revealing short, pointed ears, a sharp nose, and a pale, flawless face such as the bards of old sang of.

"Let me go!" the elf cried, thrashing against her captor.

"No need to be like that," the brute said. "Have a drink with us. I'll see to it you have a room for the night too."

The elf continued to thrash against him. All eyes fixated on the pair, rendered frozen by the struggle of prey against predator. Alaric gripped his dagger tightly. She fought like a deer against the claws of wolves, energetic at first, but eventually the deer would eventually succomb to its fate. Unless saved by some miracle, the elf stood no more chance than the deer.

"I- said- get- off!" the elf huffed. "Alasaë alaë!"

The ring on her finger emitted a faint blue pulse of light. As though propelled by an unseen force, the brute flew through the air to land in a heap at the end of the bar. A low groan escaped him. Alaric waited with baited breath, hoping the display of magic would be enough to dissuade him and anyone else from further advances. To his dismay, when the brute rose to his feet the vein in his neck throbbed and his face was flush with the anger of a man intent on revenge.