A/N: Here's the first chapter! And it's mostly about Halt everyone's favorite grim/grumpy Ranger XD. So Everything from this point on will be after the time change. Also, this book will have a lot of flashbacks in it (mostly at the beginnings of chapters) and those will always be in italics; I hope it will make it less confusing that way. Thanks everyone for the positive response and for the support, I really appreciate it.

anatharize: Thanks so much for the compliment and the review! That was part of the fun of writing this story: trying to figure out what all would/might change and how. I promise I'll answer all those questions soon enough XD. I'm really glad you like it so far.

Dragonslover98: Thanks for the review! I'm looking forward to writing them. :D

TrustTheCloak: Thanks :3 I'd love to talk technique with you, feel free to PM me whenever. In fact, I've always loved how you are able to breathe life into the characters and write emotion in your stories. I think it'd be fun to learn from each other and fun to trade tips-and maybe even fangirl XD. Thanks again for the review, I really appreciate it!

WisperRanger26: *blushes* Thanks so much for the compliments and vote of confidence; your review totally made my day to read. I'd actually love to write my own book someday- so it was nice to hear that someone thinks I might be good enough to try it eventually (I'm always worried about that). I'll definitely PM you then if I do! Also, I think you're a pretty great writer too-PM me if you ever write a book too. Thanks again.

Chapter 1: Awry Part I

~x~X~x~

Before the Time of the Tournament of Gorlan

~x~X~x~

"Name?" The first mate of the Clobhair-Ceann asked as soon as the black-haired youth approached his table.

Halt, not having expected the people in front of him in line to be finished registering so soon, was caught momentarily off guard.

"Halt O'—" he started automatically before hesitating, "Halt," he repeated again, cursing himself for his momentary lapse in concentration, "My name is Halt."

The shipmaster raised his eyebrows in surprise, scrutinizing the young man before him. It wasn't the lack of a surname that had intrigued him—there were many peasants that he'd registered as passengers on his ship before that had had no surname, after all—rather, it was the name itself.

"Halt, you say?" The man leaned forward, continuing on in the conspiratorial tone of one who likes to gossip, "The crown prince of Clonmel went by that name, you know. Your parents wouldn't have happened to name you after him, did they?" he asked.

Halt managed to re-gather himself from his earlier lapse, but none the less felt his heart rate accelerate at the turn the conversation had taken. He managed not to show it, however, and simply shook his head, shrugging slightly.

"I wouldn't know," he said finally, in answer.

He looked closely to see if the man believed him and relaxed a little. The ship's mate seemed not even to have heard him. He was far more interested in telling the latest gossip than in actually listening to Halt's responses.

"Terrible what happened to the prince—died in a fishing accident of all things!" The man continued on animatedly, idly stroking his beard. "He and his brother were out fishing and apparently he tripped and fell out of the boat, hit his head on the side of it, and then drowned. His brother, Ferris—now crown prince Ferris of Clonmel, mind you—tried to save him, but the current was far too strong. They say they've not yet found his body."

So that was the story that was going around, Halt thought bitterly. He unconsciously reached a hand towards his bruised shoulder—as if he could still feel the sharp blow from his brother's oar as it hit him, as his brother had tried to drown him. The memory of that day was still painfully fresh in his mind.

Halt had been born seven minutes before his twin brother…and Ferris had always resented those seven minutes. His whole life he'd felt that Halt had cheated him out of his birthright; and that ingrained hatred and resentment had made it all the easier for him when he tried to kill Halt. Ferris had always believed the throne should be his, and the boating incident had actually been the third time his brother had tried to kill him. To Ferris, the throne of Clonmel was worth his brother's life—but it had never been worth that much to Halt.

As Halt had struggled to make it to shore that day, he had known that his brother would never stop trying to kill him. And he'd known too that he had only two choices left to him: either he could kill Ferris before he killed him… or he could leave the country. Needless to say, Halt had chosen the second. He shook his head free of the thoughts as he became aware of the first mate's increased scrutiny and realized that the man expected a reply of some kind.

"That's… terrible," he finally settled on, unable to completely keep the dry tone out of his words.

"Isn't it just," the first mate nodded enthusiastically, "a terrible loss for the royal family." The man's attention had not moved away, and there seemed to be something more in his tone than the typical casual remark.

Halt felt a warning sense of suspicion beginning to run through him. Did the man suspect? Or worse, did he know? Though he was near the coast and far from Clonmel, there was always a chance, slight as it might be, that he could be recognized. Halt's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, the tension coming back into his stance. He mentally cursed himself for his earlier slip of giving the man his first name—and nearly giving him his surname as well.

It was a bit of a cruel irony that his first, and quite potentially catastrophic, lapse in judgment had happened when he was trying to buy passage on a ship was named after the more mischievous, drunk, and surly cousins of the laechonnachie; both creatures were the subject of great superstition in Hibernia and both were said to have nasty senses of humor. And Halt knew well that often, first lapses in judgment and attention also tended to also be last lapses in judgment and attention—nasty sense of humor indeed.

He watched warily as the first mate seemed to take in his appearance now. When he had left Clonmel, he had taken care to change the way he looked enough so that he would not be recognized by the casual eye. He was dressed in a simple tunic of grey and green with a traveling pack and travel-worn boots. His hair was roughly trimmed and he'd been attempting to grow a beard—which was more like a thin covering of stubble at the moment. But it did its purpose. When it came down to his bearing…well, he'd always been told that his brother Ferris had been the one to inherit the princely bearing of the house of Clonmel.

The best touch, however, was the longbow and cloth-yard shafts he carried slung over one shoulder and the heavy saxe knife at his belt. Those were not princely weapons. He'd been interested in archery all his life and, about a couple years ago, he'd taken to the saxe as well. He'd found the heavy knife in the wreckage of a Scandian raid and had been immediately drawn to it. It was the same way he'd often been drawn to the woods around his home or the few times he was drawn to this one abandoned house in the village outside the castle—as if he was supposed to be there, meet someone there. It was like a strange feeling of promised familiarity, or perhaps a feeling like destiny. He shook his head at the foolish notion. There was no such thing. And he'd never found anything of import on those occasions.

"But, as a forester, I don't expect you'd know much about the goings-on of the royal court," the first mate was saying, interrupting Halt's distracted thoughts for the second time.

He allowed the barest ghost of a smile to touch his face as he heard it: so the man really hadn't recognized him. He relaxed again.

"True enough," he said, and the first mate nodded, looking back down at his passenger list, signifying the end of that particular conversation. Halt was grateful for that; in fact, he quite wished it had ended sooner—or hadn't even happened at all.

"Well then, destination?" the first mate asked, taking up the quill pen again. The Clobhair-Ceann was making three separate stops before it returned back to Hibernia after all.

"Gallica," Halt said without hesitation.

There was always work for good fighting men in Gallica, he knew. However, as he said it, a strange sense of sadness and loss he couldn't explain settled over him. As he handed the man the coins he'd asked for in payment and stepped aboard the boat, he felt the beginnings of a hot prickling sensation behind his eyes. He narrowed them and cleared his throat to dispel the feeling. His mouth settled in a grim determined line. There was no going back. He'd made up his mind the moment he'd left Clonmel.

~x~X~x~

Present Day AU Timeline: In between the time of Ruins of Gorlan and Burning Bridge.

~x~X~x~

The grim bearded man had placed himself toward the side of the tavern, his back to the wall behind him and a clear view of the entire room before him. He was dressed simply, like a forester, and carried a heavy longbow and a quiver of arrows. At his belt, he wore two knives: a heavy saxe hanging from one hip and a smaller knife hanging from the other. He also wore a heavy cloak, the cowl of which was currently up and shadowing his face. That was a deliberate choice; not only did it give him a small measure of anonymity, it also allowed him the chance to carefully observe the room at large without appearing to do so. It was a personal rule of his: always pay close attention to the surroundings.

The tavern was like most any other in the relatively small villages of the Gallican countryside. It was smoke-filled, dark, and dingy—though surprisingly clean as taverns went. The food that was served here also wasn't that bad, all things considered.

Halt brought the tankard that sat before him towards his lips and drank deeply of the contents, sighing contentedly. He had asked for coffee instead of the customary ale that was the tavern's usual staple—and he certainly did not regret his decision. Had anyone asked the reason behind his choice, he might have cited another personal rule along the lines of clear head: sharper mind, but the truth was that he actually preferred the bitter drink to any type of alcohol—and not just because it didn't dull the senses, wits, and reflexes.

He set the tankard down, his shadowed gaze settling where it had been resting for quite a while now: a knight that had entered the tavern about fifteen minutes ago. He was young, probably in his late teens or early twenties and had curly brown hair. He wore a green surcoat edged with black and emblazoned with a black boar. Halt was not familiar with the emblem so guessed that this young knight came from the ranks of the minor nobility. He certainly had that air about him. He held himself as if he were fully confident, almost arrogant. But, for all that, he'd seemed a little awkward. Halt was fairly certain that the youth was unfamiliar with this sort of environment, and a little out of his element because of it.

That was the reason he had first caught Halt's eye when he came in. However, it was the way he had approached the tavern keeper, surreptitiously passing him a coin as he asked a question, that had caused Halt's attention to settle unswervingly on him. This was because, in answer to the youth's question, the tavern keeper had jerked his head casually in Halt's direction. That meant the young knight had been asking specifically about or for him. Halt already had a guess as to why that was. He let out a soundless sigh, his mouth settling in a grim line.

The young knight finished the drink he had purchased and rose to his feet, setting the cup down and turning in Halt's direction. He then proceeded to head causally over towards him—as if just coming to the decision.

Halt snorted to himself—as if he hadn't noticed the youth sneaking glances at him, when he thought no one was watching, innumerable times already.

As the knight approached, Halt saw him fingering a very large, and obviously full, coin purse at his side. He nodded to himself; the sight confirming his suspicions as to why the man had been asking about him.

It wasn't really surprising. He'd frequented this tavern a lot over the past month…and he'd become quite a noteworthy figure in this town over the course of the month as well. His expression became even more grim as he thought it. He supposed it was about time that he moved on; it was never good policy to become too noteworthy. Slightly noteworthy was good for business in his profession, but too noteworthy was dangerous and only ever attracted trouble. Besides that, he'd always had an inherent dislike of being the focal point. However, that was almost unavoidable when you were a mercenary, Halt thought then.

The young knight stopped in front of Halt's table and dropped the sack of coins on it. There came the muffled chink of metal on metal.

"All that can be yours," the young knight said boldly, confidently, "so long as you help with me with a little problem of mine that has cropped up recently."

Halt had looked up slowly to meet the young knight's arrogant gaze as he'd dropped the coin purse. Now he leaned back casually in his chair and crossed his arms, unimpressed. He fixed the overblown young man with a blank stare.

"You're new to this, aren't you?" he said flatly, gesturing towards the full sack of coins with a disinterested inclination of his head. "Walk in with a purse like that and you're just begging for someone to rob you."

The young knight was taken momentarily aback by the mercenary's response and unconcerned manner—as well as the faint Hibernian accent that tinged his words. He floundered for a moment before trying again; though, this time, Halt noticed that he didn't quite manage to completely recapture the level of confidence he'd been projecting previously.

"I'm veteran enough at it to offer you a job," the young knight countered, his face flushing with anger. "The Lord of Chateau Oiseau Blanc has turned my father out of his service, broken all his oaths to him and left us with no holdings. To add to that, he has brought irreparable insult to my family and my family's name. I cannot suffer this to pass. As such, I am looking for someone who can help avenge my family's honor and good name. I won't be satisfied until I have received recompense for this slight. I can pay you more than you usually see in a month if you aid me in my endeavor."

Halt sighed again, honestly disinterested now, and he shook his head.

"No," he said decisively.

"No?" The knight asked incredulously.

"That's right: No," Halt said, enunciating his words carefully. "I don't want your money and I won't work for you. Best be off."

"I didn't come here to be insulted by a foreign forester," The knight said dangerously, obviously stung and insulted by Halt's manner and refusal.

"No," Halt agreed, "you came here to be turned down by one."

"Why you," the knight snarled, reaching for his sword in a fury, "I will not suffer your—"

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the Hibernian mercenary said calmly.

The knight blinked in surprise, his weapon only half drawn from his sheath, as he stared at the blade of the saxe knife that was currently resting near his throat, and then at steady dark eyes of the man who held it. The grizzled mercenary had somehow drawn it and risen to his feet from his casual nonchalant position in the time it had taken the knight to reach for his sword. The knight, realizing he was at a severe disadvantage, and that he had lost the engagement before it even started, forced himself to swallow his anger and slowly moved his hand away from the hilt of his weapon. He held his hands to the side in a gesture of surrender before backing away from the mercenary's table.

He had made it about five paces, and was turning away, when the Hibernian called out to him. The knight turned just in time to catch the heavy sack of coins—his sack of coins—as the mercenary tossed them his way.

Halt picked up his tankard and took another deep sip as he watched the knight head away from him and then sit back at the table he'd previously occupied, as if unsure what to do now. Halt shrugged to himself at the sight, completely unconcerned that he'd just passed up what could have been a very lucrative job. There was always work for good fighting men in Gallica. But that number grew substantially less if a person was picky about the type. Halt had a rule about never involving himself in petty brawls between tyrants and the nobility, or in mindless raids against village folk and peasant farmers—which was the reason why he'd refused the young knight so readily.

That simply wasn't how Halt did things. And in Gallica, where that happened more often than not, he'd had plenty of offers to refuse. But Halt had always managed to get by. He was skilled enough to be picky. And when the Riders of the Easter Steppes had decided to try and take over Gallica, he had thrived. Not only had he been paid well by high ranking nobles and Galician officials to help repel them, but he had also gotten an extra side offer from a visiting Araluen to get some good Temuji horses for breeding purposes. That had been his most profitable time. But even now that it was long over, he still managed to get by fairly well.

But those were the keywords: get by. No matter how many jobs he got, or how much money, it always felt like getting by. Maybe it was just fanciful thinking but, ever since he had left Hibernia, he had harbored this empty feeling of malcontent, a feeling that he was missing something, that he'd forgotten or lost something. But, whenever he tried to focus on it, it seemed to retreat back into the corners of his mind.

He grunted softly in irritation as he set his cup down. He had always had that feeling, but it was stronger than ever before of late. It always seemed to be growing ever since the moment he had first realized it. Usually, he had been able to put it aside into the corner of his mind where he could forget or ignore it, but lately, that had not been so easy. He brought the tankard back up to his lips and then grimaced as he realized that he'd already drained the cup. Disappointed, he eyed the bare wood of the bottom and then set it back down, pushing it away from himself. He was debating whether or not to spend the coin needed to get another cup full when some movement towards the edge of the tavern caught his eye.

Some of the more unsavory occupants of the tavern had obviously taken note of the young knight—or, more specifically, his money bag. Six thugs had surreptitiously made their way around the young man's table and he was now effectively hemmed in.

Never go anywhere without knowing how to get out again, Halt winced inwardly, citing another of his rules as he saw it. In Halt's mind, that rule included being certain of, and sitting near, places with easy escape routes. The young knight had obviously forgotten that—though, then again, perhaps he'd never learned it in the first place. Halt sighed and shook his head.

The knight, becoming aware of his rather desperate situation, rose quickly and tried to fight off the group of men. Steel rang against steel as the knight's sword met with that of the first bandit. The knight deflected the bandit's blow and sent his hilt smashing into the brigand's head. The man tumbled to the ground, blood streaming down his face from a gash above his eyebrow from the vicious blow.

The knight dealt as quickly with the next three. He moved to avoid a wild swing from another of the thugs. He stepped skillfully out of reach but, unfortunately, forgot that one of the huge vertical beams that supported the building's ceiling was directly behind him. He stumbled as he backed directly into it, losing his balance. The other bandits took advantage of his stumble and momentary lapse in concentration. One pointed their sword at his throat before he could recover. Another tossed the young man's sword out of reach, while the third tied him to the rough post.

The first man, the one the knight had sent to the ground with a head wound, rose painfully to his feet. His mouth locked in a snarl as he took the young knight's money pouch. He glanced at his other fallen companions, one of which was lying ominously still, and the snarl turned into an expression of livid rage.

"Why did you have to go and make things difficult?" The man said through gritted teeth. "All we wanted was your coin. Now Jean Luc is dead thanks to you. The question is: what do we do with you now?" He drew one of his daggers and pointed it at the knight's vulnerable throat. "I think I'm going to make you bleed a little before I kill you. Maybe I'll cut off your ears—maybe your nose too… What do you think boys?" he asked his companions.

"I think you should turn him loose," Halt said, stepping out of the shadows. He had an arrow on the string of his longbow aimed unwaveringly at the bandit's leader.

A/N: Thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated. Don't hesitate to let me know if you see anything that needs improvement. I hope you all have an awesome week until next time! I'll be introducing more of the characters next chapter.

Note: Clobhair-Ceann is the more Irish Gaelic way of spelling clurichaun (which actually are, according to Irish folklore, the more drunk and surly cousins of the leprechaun). Their myths and folklore are pretty interesting/awesome :)