"Maid! Maid! Where's my food?!"

"C-Coming sir!" a young maid, carefully balancing a large tray of magnificent cuisine, rushed into the chamber. She stopped in front of the intricate throne, offering the plate to the person who sat on the ornate chair. She nervously tried to keep her shaking hands steady as she kneeled in front of him, making sure to keep her frightened gaze on the floor.

Baron Jeton Fisnik, a pudgy man who had inherited his late father's power almost a year ago, shifted forward slightly as he eyed the food. It looked exquisite; succulent meat perfectly cooked and seasoned, small strips of rare fish perfectly fileted, and a delicious assortment of small, sweet cakes.

Fisnik reached out hungrily, a ruby amulet dangling from his neck; the symbol of his position and superiority. He plucked up one of the cakes and stuffed it into his mouth, barely pausing to chew before swallowing.

The maid waited for his reaction for a few, dreadful seconds, not daring to breathe.

Fisnik suddenly lashed out and flipped the tray in her hands, deliberately dumping its contents all over the poor maid. She bit back a startled gasp as food landed in her hair, stained her uniform, and scattered across the floor.

"Too much meat, not enough cakes!" he shouted down at her. Her delicate frame was trembling slightly now, trying to stop the tears welling in her eyes.

""I-I'll tell the cook, s-sir." She managed to whisper before quickly turning around dashing out of the room. Fisnik watched her leave, his gaze concentrated intently on her fleeing behind.

When she was out of sight, he sighed and leaned back in his throne. Could the staff do anything right? Normally he would have backhanded someone for such a mistake, but the maid was much too appealing for that. He chuckled, closing his eyes as he leaned his head back in a content fantasy. Maybe he should order her to his chambers tonight and—

Pain suddenly blossomed on the left side of his chest. His eyes popped open, and he slowly looked down as shock overcame his body.

A sword stuck out of his torso, piercing straight through his heart. A hand, wearing a thin armored glove, grasped the hilt tightly. Blood started to surround the sharp blade, staining Fisnik's expensive shirt. The last thing he felt before slipping into the realm of death was a faint tug as his precious amulet was ripped from his neck.


"Why are we meeting him here?"

"This isn't your ordinary tavern, Kresh. This is the Cattic Tavern, the one place where mercenaries and low lives are welcomed. Be happy I'm letting you come along. Now, two rules. One, don't talk to anyone once we get inside. And two, keep a good hold on your wallet."

"Dad," the scruffy looking child in his late teens looked up at his father, "What're we here for, anyway?"

"I just told you a few minutes ago. Weren't you paying any attention?" The father, a well-built man named Serge Fisnik, asked.

The boy gave him a blank look.

Serge sighed. "Right. Look, if you really want to know all the details, I'll tell you later. But right now we need to get in there and meet our guy."

Without waiting for a response, he started to walk toward the tavern. Kresh hurriedly caught up to him, gazing at their destination.

The Cattic Tavern's very walls seemed to radiate with shadowy mischief, with its dark stone structure and eerie landscape. The tavern sat on the edge of the Cattic River, whose gurgling water drowned out whatever whisperings escaped the thick walls. The stream continued down a small incline and flowed into the Agon City, a bustling place known for its wide array of craftsmen. Behind the tavern lay nothing but a seemingly endless expanse of sparse trees, their long shadows thrown haphazardly across the building.

Realizing that he was falling behind, Kresh quickly picked up his pace to catch up to his father again. Although his pride wouldn't let him admit it, he purposely stayed close to his dad out of nervousness for what lay inside.

The instant the door was opened, they were assaulted by the smell of liquor and roasted meat. A gentle murmuring buffeted their ears, each quiet conversation melding together into an indistinct background noise. Kresh had to blink a few times for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, purposefully shadowing the faces of those inside.

The whole atmosphere, while thick with a warm welcome, unsettled Kresh. Something about the customers themselves put him on edge. Many wore armor, cloaks, or had weapons clearly visible. Their movements, careful and precise, showed the secrecy of the words they exchanged.

Serge ushered him inside, and Kresh reluctantly followed. They walked toward one of the booths in the back and sat down. Kresh's eyes darted around the other tables, observing these mysterious men with strange fascination.

Suddenly, a large man with scars on every muscle looked up from his chat and stared straight at Kresh, as if sensing his snooping. Kresh immediately looked down at the table and away from the man's terrifying gaze. He subconsciously edged closer to his parent, now focusing intently on the scratches and dents scored into the table.

After a few minutes, the father nudged Kresh. Kresh looked up to see a young man walking toward them, not much older than himself. The man's piercing green eyes observed the father and son with a cool, calculating gaze, but his face remained expressionless. He had chin-length blond hair, and armor covered nearly every inch of his body, leaving only his head and part of his neck visible. A few belts crisscrossed around his waist, carrying a traveler's pouch and a sheathed longsword at his side.

The young man sat down in the chair across from them. Silence filled the air between them for a few moments, as if he was waiting for them to speak first.

"You get him?" Serge finally asked.

The man gave a curt nod and flicked open his pouch. He reached in and quickly pulled something out, so fast that Kresh barely noticed. He then slid it across the table and into Serge's waiting hands.

Serge scooped up the object and cupped it in his hands, examining it carefully. Kresh leaned over slightly to glimpse the item of interest.

It was a ruby amulet, the glittering gem encased in rich gold. Attached to it was a long, broken chain. It looked vaguely familiar to Kresh, but he couldn't quite remember. He looked up at Serge, surprised to see his father's face light up in a relieved smile.

"This is the real thing alright. Now that good for nothing uncle of mine can never force us to give up our precious crops again. Although I must admit," he commented, glancing over at the armored man, "I'm surprised no one had killed him yet. Kind of a shame to waste your talents with such filth. "

The blonde didn't reply, only continuing to look at Serge with an unreadable expression.

Serge burst into laughter, making Kresh jump. "I get it, you don't care to hear about an old man's family troubles, right? Alright, here's your reward." He handed a small bundle, covered with rough cloth, to the man. The man accepted it, peeked through the cloth, and then gave a satisfied nod. He then stood and walked off to the other side of the tavern.

Kresh watched him leave, trying to process what had just happened. It sounded like his great uncle was dead-not that he cared. Everyone had hated Jeton Fisnik, the Baron who was well known for his unreasonable demands of crops and meat to fill his fat belly or just plain wasted it on whatever he felt like.

Kresh was more interested on the retreating blonde, "Dad, who was that guy?"

Serge smiled. "He is one of the best mercenaries out there, willing to take jobs from poor and rich alike. As long as he gets enough money, he'll do anything. And I do mean anything. His name is Vash Zwingli. "

A/N: I hope you enjoyed the first chapter!

I would like to give credit to ninja82, and to thank her so much for all of the support. She's the reason I even started to post this in the first place!

I love reviews, but if you don't have time/don't want to, I understand. ^^ Thank you for reading!