Doom sipped his ale and surveyed the inn's tavern with a casual eye. Despite the rough state of the place, the little room was crowded with people eager to find some small comfort from the nasty weather, and from their nastier world. He set the mug back down, and frowned in distaste as his hands touched the grimy table, sticky from years of spilt drinks. His booth, at least, was in the farthest corner of the room, so that viewing all the patrons was a simple task.
Usually, he took no issue in sleeping outdoors; he found a small pleasure in it, in fact. He tended to sleep well under the trees, although he could not name why. But violent rainstorms had lashed the land relentlessly all day, with no end in sight. Better to shell out a few coins for a brief rest, than drown in the mud while he slept.
The inn was a little ways west from the sad remains of Where Waters Meet, and still a fair journey from the Resistance stronghold. Its odd placement meant that its patrons were mostly travellers. The Rithmere games would be held soon, and many had come from across Deltora for a chance to compete or watch.
A crowded table of drunken men slurred out a song.
"The faint of heart should flee,
In case they are meant to fight me!
But those of strength should have no fear,
And seek their fortune at Rithmere!"
"Imagine what it must be like, to be so merry in these times," Doom raised his head as a woman slid into the chair across from him. Her clothes were dry, no doubt she was boarding in the inn. Doom narrowed his eyes at the stranger. She was as tall and broad as he was, and her head was clean-shaven and painted with swirling red designs. She did not have any obvious weapons, but there was much that could be hidden under the leather greatcoat she wore. It would be a dirty fight, should it come to one.
He sipped his pint again, and said nothing. The men were still singing.
"You are a hard man to find, Doom," she said quietly, after a moment. "I have been tracking you for some time."
He forced his face into a neutral expression. She knew his name. She had followed him without his knowledge. He watched as she lifted her drink to her lips with her right hand. He would go for her left side, and hope that she was not wearing armour under her coat. She would have to die.
"Yes, I know who you are," she continued bluntly. "A name like yours. A face like yours. I hope you do not believe that you are subtle, for you would be heartily mistaken, my friend."
Doom's eyes flickered across the swirls on her skull and the muscles that bulged through her jacket sleeves and could not help but think that she was being hypocritical.
"Do not mistake me for a friend," he warned.
To his surprise, the woman laughed, pleased that he had spoken. "Not yet, in any case. I am Lindal of Broome." She traced the sign of the Resistance on the side of her mug.
Doom's eyes went from her drink to her face and back. She could be an asset. She could be a threat. "You are a long way from home. And you should not have come."
Lindal met Doom's eyes, her brows raised in defiance. "And why is that?"
"I will not give my secrets to someone who has stalked me so freely. You will be lucky if I let you leave this place with your life."
"You are afraid of me," Lindal snorted. "Your little band must be riddled with weakness."
Doom did not reply to the bait, but rose and left his drink half-finished on the table.
He had to leave. Everything he needed was in the pack he carried, for he had been ready to run in a moment's notice. The waste of the few coins he had spent on the room meant nothing. He looked up at the sky as he exited, ignoring the rain that pounded down on his face. The moon shone brightly, and would guide his way. He pulled his hood up and braced for the journey.
"You!" He turned as a mousey-faced stranger slammed open the tavern's side man ran towards him with a long knife. Doom recognized him as one of the drunks from the table headed to Rithmere, although he had clearly been playing a part. "You will die tonight!"
Before Doom had a chance to draw his sword, a spear erupted forth through the man's chest, and he crumpled forward with a cry. Sword in hand, Doom watched as a figure emerged from the shadows. Lindal had shed her long coat, revealing a second spear, and a wicked hunting knife at her belt.
"How did you know he going to try and kill me?" Doom asked fiercely. His sword was pointed toward her heart.
Lindal rolled her eyes and stalked towards the body. Rain had plastered the dead man's hair to his face. She put one booted foot on the man's shoulders for balance, and pulled the spear free with a grunt.
"I just saved your life, there is no need to be so defensive. He saw you leave, and got up, too. I must say, I am surprised. He does not look like a servant of the Shadowlord."
"There are spies everywhere," Doom told her gravely. He lowered his sword but did not sheath it. "Lindal of Broome. Why is it that you wish to join our fight?"
Lindal looked at him grimly. "My people are suffering. Is that not reason enough?"
He stared at her for a long moment. Is that not reason enough? He nodded slowly and sheathed his sword. His mind was made up.
"We should move with haste," Doom called out. "We do not want to be found here."
Lindal raised her brows quizzically. Much of the paint on her head had stayed despite the rain— made of strong stuff, like the wearer— but in the moonlight Doom could see the water that trailed down her face was tinted with red.
"Is there a problem?" He asked. "Did you change your mind?"
Lindal roared with laughter, although much of it was lost to the wind. "Not at all," she plucked her sodden coat from where she had dropped it.
"I will not thank you for saving my life," he told firmly, but he could not help but give her a mirroring near-smile. "But I will return the favour, if I must."
"A fair trade, I think," Lindal of Broome bared her teeth fiercely. "Lead on. I will follow."
They did not spare a last glance at the body they left behind.
This is a prompt fill for hotdamnilton on Tumblr, who requested Doom and Lindal's first meeting.