It was raining in Deerwood Forest. Most of Mercia had received a great deal of it in recent days. So far it had been fairly consistent, neither a heavy downpour nor a light drizzle. It had, however, seemed to intensify around noon on the fourth day, and continued on through the afternoon until dusk. By then, the rain had increased considerably, so that it was nothing short of a full cloudburst.
The people of Mercia, however, hardly took any notice. Rain such as this was common, and the inhabitants were used to donning heavy boots and wrapping their cloaks tightly about themselves when they went out. Even if it wasn't raining, the villagers were still used to cloaks and boots, because clear weather was hardly any better than rainy weather at this time of year.
It was dusk, and the rain was coming down in sheets on the town of Snottingham. It drummed on the rough wooden shingles of the old roofs, and splattered down on the streets, joining the rivulets running between the broken flagstones. Shop owners were beginning to close up their storefronts for the night, and the lamps were sputtering in their grimy posts.
People were still out and about, their cloaks wrapped so tightly about them that they resembled short, huddled, bean-like shapes with large booted feet, moving quickly from street to street as they made their way home. No one paused to look twice at the dark, dirty alleyways as they passed them. The alleys were cramped and strewn with rubbish, and the water drains were almost always clogged with more garbage, causing putrid grey water to flood in pools around the low parts of the uneven ground.
Near the edge of the city, in one of these particular alleyways, the drain was no different. The fetid grey water was swirling listlessly as it attempted to force its way through the blockage of trash, dirt, and fallen leaves into the sewers below. However, the water became stymied altogether as a dark mass began to creep its way from between the cracks in the grate. It appeared liquid in form, dark as midnight, and moved surprisingly quickly. It swept beneath the flooding cesspool and onto the muddy gravel beside it, where it congealed and began to take form. In a few seconds, where before there had been a dark puddle, there stood a stooped, cloak-wearing figure nearly exactly like the ones in the streets. It paused behind a few rotting remains of some barrels, then darted out of the alleyway and began making its way across the street.
Once across the street, the figure paused, glanced about him for a moment before continuing towards a shabby, run-down building sandwiched between two newer, nicer ones. A grimy wooden sign with the words "The Twisted Pine" emblazoned upon it in peeling greenish-gray paint creaked as it swung lazily back and forth in the fickle wind. The windows were as filthy and gloomy as the shabby wooden exterior, but a warm light shone through them nonetheless.
The door squealed noisily as it swung open on rusty hinges. The figure paused a moment to remove his hood and squeeze the water from his mahogany red tunic and battered blue cloak. He looked just like any sort of shady fellow that might step foot in this tavern, yet he was so much more. Few knew him and of his powers, and even fewer knew where he truly came from. No one on Mobius knew his name, which he kept a secret, but to those whom he had encountered in his travels, he was known as Morlog.
He was a tall, muscular wolverine with midnight black eyes. His fur was a dusty grey and his shoulder-length hair, which hung limply in his face, was a dull chestnut brown. His face was rather square-shaped and rugged, bearing signs of rough living. He wore a grim expression, and his chiseled jaw was set in a tight frown, but his eyes were deep and piercing. As he wrung the water out of his cloak, his gaze swept about the interior of the tavern for the first time.
The inside of the pub was just as discolored as the outside and its occupants even more so. It was crowded and noisy, so no one had noticed the wolverine fellow as he entered. He observed them sitting around their heavy tankards and speaking in low voices, chatting amiably at the bar, laughing at their companions while playing cards, or quietly observing as they smoked their pipes. The warm air was ripe with the pungent mixture of ale, sweat, and tobacco smoke. The ceiling was low and sagging upon its coarse wooden pillars, and the floor, which Morlog at first took to be earthy, was of a roughly-hewn flagstone covered with a thick layer of dust and grime; evidence of the accumulated filth of countless years. Numerous candles sputtered in their grubby wicks beside the windows, in the center of tables, or swung from low iron chandeliers. The tables, chairs, and stools were hewn from oak planks, and seemed sturdy enough, even though they evidently had seen more than their fair share of occupants.
And what an assortment of occupants! There were people from many different racial groups and countries, yet they all had a distinctly dodgy look about them that made them all seem alike. There were folks from as far as Kar Leung in the east to Sand Blast City in the west. Each seemed to keep to himself or to his companions, and no one looked twice at anyone else in the immediate vicinity.
In one corner, a trio of wolves that looked to have come from the Wolf Pack Nation down in Soumerca sat playing some sort of card game while swigging whiskey from large bottles. A plump squirrel woman in an enormous feathered hat sat on a stool at the bar; shouting and laughing in a voice that drowned even the raucous argument between a clearly exasperated hyena and a smug-looking jackal at a table near the middle of the noisy pub. Both were obviously foreign; judging from their heavy turbans and sweeping robes, they were most likely from the southeast, maybe Shamar or even Adabat. At another table farther off, a pair of female lynxes sat sipping wine from long, tall glasses. They both wore black, tight-fitting leotards and long, slinky boots that reached to mid-thigh. Their golden jewelry flashed in the candlelight, and their playfully sparkling eyes peeking out from beneath long, silky hair were lined heavily with several layers of dark-colored eyeliner. Near the door, two ancient echidnas were smoking tobacco from long clay pipes. The strong-smelling smoke lingered in the air, giving the whole pub a hazy feel. Both were bundled up so tightly they hardly resembled more than sagging sacks of rough, worn robes with derelict, drooping heads sticking out of them. One of them squinted up at the wolverine through grimy pince-nez glasses.
"Close 'e door, boy. You're lettin' in a draft." He croaked wheezily, taking another pull at his pipe.
Without a word, Morlog turned and closed the door behind him, then made his way through the tavern towards the bar. He threw down a pair of silver coins and said in a thick, husky voice:
"One pint of rum."
The barman, a heavyset coyote with a dull, stony face, bushy gray eyebrows, and a scar across his left arm grunted and pulled a thick wooden tankard from a shelf above him. After observing Morlog for a moment as he poured the ale, he muttered something under his breath and spoke in a voice as gravelly as his appearance.
"Don't see many fellers like yeh 'roundabout 'ere." He remarked, chewing on a generous wad of tobacco. "Where're yeh from?"
"Northamer." Morlog muttered in reply, figuring this would suffice.
The barman grunted again, wiping his sausage-shaped fingers on his soiled apron. "What brings yeh to these 'ere parts?" He asked, slamming the tankard down on the bar with a thud.
"Business." The wolverine replied.
"Be that so?" Inquired the barman, taking the coins and examining them with a practiced eye. "Hope it ain't business wot them fellers call 'business'." Here he scowled deeply at the foreign hyena and jackal near the middle of the pub, who were now shouting angrily at each other with clenched fists and bared teeth.
"Oy!" The barman bellowed across the bar, causing all conversation to momentarily cease. "Shut up or take it outside, will yeh? I gots more trouble 'n noise 'an my pub can hold wit'out yeh rabble goin'n stirrin' things up!" He turned back to Morlog and scowled even deeper, showing several blackened, uneven teeth. "Bunch o' dirty rifraff." He muttered as the two left the pub in a huff and chatter resumed.
Morlog snorted in agreement. Then he shrugged. "Hey, it's a living."
"Yeh got that right."
There was a pause as the barman went to clear off the recently vacated table. When he came back, Morlog was still sitting where he was, staring at his tankard. He looked up when the barman came back to him, wiping a glass with a filthy gray rag that looked as though it had originally been white, but had long since ceased to be so.
"Say, wasn't yeh here fer business?" He inquired, raising a bushy eyebrow at the mysterious fellow.
"Er, yes." Morlog replied. "I was wondering if you could help."
The barman shrugged. "I'll do my best."
Morlog leaned in farther and spoke in a low voice. "I'm looking for someone." He said.
"Eh, there be lots o' someones." The barman grunted. "Wot sort o' someone yeh lookin' fer?"
"An echidna by the name of Kragok. Do you know if he's here?"
There was a pause during which the barman continued to wipe out the glass with the soiled rag he was holding.
"Most fellers don' like bandyin' them names about, know wot I mean?" The barman replied without looking up. "Fellers start askin' more questions than's good fer them. Other 'n the usual 'where're yeh from, why're yeh 'ere, an' that sort 'o idle chinwaggin', I mean."
"One can never be too careful." Morlog remarked, taking a swig from his tankard.
"Too true." The barman chuckled. "So yeh said yeh's lookin' fer 'n echidna, eh?"
Morlog nodded.
The barman's face contorted once more into a scowl and he spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the floor with obvious contempt.
"Bloomin' rabble, the whole lot of 'em." He grunted. "They come in 'ere wit 'em dread-heads 'eld 'igh, thinkin' they owns the 'ole place." He snorted again. "On'y echinas I've seen 'ere today're 'em two tater-sacks," he gestured to the pair of old pipe-smokers by the door, "n' that 'ooded feller off in the back." He pointed. "Back table wit'at gray feller, see? Still got 'is 'ood on, too."
Morlog turned. Across the pub, in the very farthest, most secluded corner, sat two shady figures, one cloaked in black, the other in dark gray. Both had their hoods up over their faces, and were sitting very still, like cloaked statues.
"Thanks." Morlog muttered, getting up from his seat.
"Jest watch yeh back wit 'im."
"What do you mean?" inquired Morlog.
"Lemme put it this way." The barman said, setting his glass down. "I gets a lotta strange fellers from all over, y'know? Well, 'im, that 'ooded feller? I took one look at 'im, I did, an' a shiver goes down me spine. I never met 'n echidna I trusted, but 'e were in a league of 'is own. Yeh'll come to a bad end if yeh 'ang around wit' 'em lot."
"I think I'll take my chances." Morlog replied sourly.
The barman shrugged. "Don' say I didn't warn yeh." He grunted, waving his hand in farewell as he moved off to fulfill another order. "So long."
Morlog waved back, and then turned and carried his tankard across the tavern to the farthest table where the two figures sat motionless in the shadows. As he walked, he pondered what the barman had said. He himself had never had dealings with echidnas before, but he couldn't help wondering if the barman might be right, and he was heading for a bad end. But another part of him suspected that what the barman had said was based on some past encounter with an echidna that made him distrust all echidnas on principle. Whatever the barman's reasons, Morlog decided to take his chances anyway. After all, if worst came to worst, what chance did one echidna and his subordinate have against the power he possessed?
"Evening, gentlemen." Morlog said, sitting down and placing his tankard on the table. "Is this where I can find a Mr. Kragok? I was contacted and asked to meet him in the Twisted Pine at eight on the twenty-second."
"You've found me, alright." The black-hooded figure said in a high, cold voice, setting down his tall glass. His face was completely immersed in shadows. He offered his hand to Morlog and they shook. The echidna's hand was small and fragile-looking, and felt rather stiff and cold. When the handshake was over, he pulled it back inside his robes.
"And have you met my associate, Eclipse?" He asked, inclining his head to his gray-robed companion, who reached up with three-fingered, clawed hands and removed his hood. Morlog started in surprise, biting his tongue just in time to keep from uttering a rather colorful word. The face was Mobian in form, but distinctly alien, with pallid gray and red skin and yellow eyes with black scleras. He had seen that face before, but only in a picture, and that was a long time ago. However, he regained his composure and offered his hand in greeting.
"No, I don't believe I have." He said. The alien figure smiled, showcasing long, pointed gray teeth, and took the proffered hand in his own three-fingered claw.
"Let's get down to business, shall we?" he asked the echidna in a chilling, creeping voice that seemed to resonate around the enclosed space with an uncanny hollowness. "Now that we're all here, I don't think we should waste any more time."
"No, indeed." The echidna replied. "If you please, I -"
"Hang on a minute." Morlog interrupted, feeling he needed to establish a few things before more surprises were sprung. "I don't know about you, but I generally like to know who I'm talking to. I get the feeling you're not what you seem."
"No, I'm not." The echidna replied, his voice sounding mocking, and almost playful. "But then you're not what you appear to be, either."
Before Morlog could reply, the echidna reached up and slowly removed his hood, letting the dim candlelight reveal his face at last. Morlog, who had unfortunately chosen that moment to take a swig from his tankard, gasped with surprise, causing him to choke on his rum.
The echidna had a long, pointy nose and thick dreadlock-like quills, just like all echidnas. However, what gave the wolverine such a start was the long, curly reddish hair that cascaded in ringlets over the dreadlocks, and the perfectly shaped blue eyes that stared piercingly out from beneath thick eyelashes.
The female echidna stared at Morlog for a few moments, her expression somewhere between complacency and curiosity. Then she smiled slyly and offered her hand again.
"The name's Lien-Da. Grandmaster Lien-Da." She said in a lofty-sounding voice, with particular emphasis on the word grandmaster. Morlog, however, stared for another few seconds, and then seemed to surface from a deep reverie.
"What?!" He spluttered.
"Haven't you heard of me?" Lien-Da inquired, lifting the glass from the table before her and taking a sip from the dark red liquid within.
"Of course." Morlog replied. "You're from the Dark Egg Legion, aren't you? You work for Doctor Eggman?"
Lien-Da nodded, taking another sip from her glass. Her flashing blue eyes never left his face for an instant, but her expression was unreadable.
"But why not tell me that outright?" Morlog asked, finding Lien-Da's insistent stare a bit unnerving. "Why all the secrecy?"
"But I thought you liked secrecy and tricks?" Lien-Da inquired, lifting an eyebrow to stare quizzically at him through locks of curly hair.
"Times have changed." Morlog stated flatly.
"Indeed, they have." Lien-Da agreed. "And that's why we're here."