In the land of Lothien, a vast, sprawling continent filled to the brim with large empires, ambitious kingdoms and roving bands of bandits and chaotic beasties. In this land of nations, war has sprung up, ignited by greed, anger, jealousy, lust for power and ambition and something? else.
These are the dark pots from which true heroes are chosen even from the most unlikely of places. They are forged, not born, through their actions. It is in these dark times we follow our heroes on their journey.
In the small kingdom of Merin, a land ruled by a equally small, angry, tyrannical king, lay a small ale house by the name of the Silver Steed. It was a cramped, old building, its roof collapsing on some sides and hastily repaired. It was equally cramped on the inside, filled with dark, grimy smoke coming from the hanging iron lanterns.
The cliental of the Silver Steed were a ragtag group of criminals and normal people who simply wished a fair cup of ale. They came in all shapes, sizes, backgrounds and occupations. Some were the enormous Clingin bandits who stood almost eight feet tall and had arms the size of a small log and other s were the small and lithe Mikian rogues who barely topped four feet and looked a bit like a human twig.
One of the cliental, a newcomer to the tavern, was a short man with sideswiped golden hair pushed back out of his ruddy, pale, angular face with red cheeks. His silver eyes had a certain look about them, a cunning, ruthless look which was magnified by the rough scar that cut from his right temple across to his left cheek.
He wore leather armor with woven in iron pegs that covered his torso and the upper tops of his arms. Under this armor he wore a blue, cotton tunic and a set of black leggings. The leather gloves, reinforced with steel at the knuckles, and the leather boots were patched and worn. All looked as if it had seen better days.
The man walked into the tavern, drawing the stares and gazes from the more regular cliental. He coughed once from the pitch black smoke and sat down at the crickety old stool near the bar. He ordered a pint. The one eyed bartender gaze him a glancing look and passed him a dirty glass filled to the brim with the yellow, foamy liquid. He looked at it for a second, scanning its quality. He shrugged, apparently finding its contents nonlethal and took a chug. He misjudged the contents power and coughed it back up, earning a look of disdain from the bartender and his surrounding patients.
?Probably should ?ave brought your own glass, mate.? Said a voice from his left. It came from a rather tall man of medium build wearing black robes and a shiny, black metal cuirass. His face was pale and his irises black as a coal, as was his hair which was cut short. He carried a black walking stick with a raven head pommel.
?I realize that now, thanks.? The man, Zak, sputtered, turning to him. ?This stuff has an? interesting take on pleasing the taste buds. Not sure it worked.?
?No, its never been one for the taste but it?ll get you drunk in a giffy.? The man replied, then offered his hand, pale and long fingered, for Zak to shake. ?The name?s Hiro Dark.? He told him, cheerfully. It was odd for someone who looked so sinister.
Zak paused a moment and shook the man?s hand. ?Hullo to you, Hiro. I?m Zak Katsson.? He said, a bit wary.
?This has to be your first time here otherwise you would have brought your own glas-? The dark haired man began. He was interrupted by the tavern door being blown in and several armed soldiers in plate mail and wearing the king?s crest came running in, swords and axes raised.
?By order of the Lord King Meric II, King of Merin and all of you.? The lead soldier, designated by his fancy helmet with a griffin beak sticking out of the top said pointedly. ?This establishment is herebye closed and all in it are under arrest.?
The groups inside the tavern paused and looked at one another and jumped onto the soldiers. The Clingin bandits swung chairs with enough power to break a man?s body while the lithe Mikian?s dove forth and cut at the soldiers weak points before disappearing in the black smoke and shadows. Zak and Hiro looked at one another and then the barman who pointed to the back doorway. They got up and ran, a soldier?s arrow hitting the barman in the back of the head.
?Well, damn.? Zak said, kicking the door down. ?Come on!? He said to Hiro, who nodded. They fled through the musty cellars and came upon the stairs to the cellar door of the outside.
?Okay, we should be ?? Hiro said as he pushed the door open to reveal at least half a dozen spear points pointed directly at his face. ?Trapped. Completely trapped. Yeah, that?s what I was going for.? He muttered to himself as they were both forcibly halled up by the guards.
?Well, there goes plan A.? Zak said, not even bothering to struggle against the guards.
?To be fair,? Hiro pointed out. ?We didn?t even have a plan A.?
?Quiet you.? A guard said, smacking Zak and Hiro in the stomach with the spear butt.
?Go back and suckle on your mother, fool.? Zak spat out, doubling over. This remark gave him another smack with his spear this time on the back of the head.
Hiro was a bit better mannered, his armor absorbing the blow. ?What do you want with us?? He asked, unfazed.
?The king has the desire to speak with you rabble. A Hiro Dark and a Zak Katsson along with some other gits.? A small, red head soldier told them, motioning for them to move. ?Come on then, move.?
Hiro and Zak glanced at each other and shouldered along, walking as the soldiers prodded them.
?So, this normal for you?? Hiro asked Zak.
Zak nodded wearily. ?Pretty much, yeah.?
