Chapter 1

Our story starts, as a lot of them tend to do, in a tavern. Not a nice and cosy one like your local pub where you can order an expensive beer with a hearty dish on the side or a fancy drink, the kind that comes with a slice of fruit rammed on the rim of the glass and a tiny umbrella. No, this is the kind of tavern where you go in for "a few drinks with the lads" and then wake up the next morning with a splitting headache, a black eye and what would appear to be a tattoo of a rather dainty butterfly stamped just above your arse.

In this smoky, dimly lit tavern several men and women sat clustered around their tables like barnacles around the hull of a ship. They were the kind of people who had just finished a hard day's work and wanted to drown away the knowledge that tomorrow promised to be another hard day of work. For these people every day held the promise, nay guarantee, to consist mostly of hard work.

Though these people formed the backbone of any decent, civilized economy they are of no consequence for this story. What should interest us are the people who did not look as though they belonged here.

The first in our list of characters was an elf named Horas who sat in a secluded corner of the drinking room, on his table was a piece of parchment that promised a to be a fine map one day as well as an inkwell and a series of neatly arranged quills. He had the look of a high elf about him. Which mainly meant that he looked down on everyone he considered lesser than himself, i.e. every member of most other races. The map he was currently working on would hopefully one day be his crowning achievement as a cartographer.

Now you might be thinking that a lonely elf sitting in a corner with just a candle and the beginnings of a map would be easy pickings for the more criminal elements of each place he visited. This had crossed said criminal elements minds as well, until they saw he was clad in silver scale armour. When they also noticed the well-used bow and short sword Horas carried they usually decided to err on the side of caution and go and find a dark alley that hopefully contained an old lady with a hefty coin purse.

As it were Horas had little to worry about as the attention of most of the patrons' was fixed on a figure standing near the fireplace. They might be forgiven for staring as the usual customer who frequented this establishment was not covered in thick, scaly skin or was clad in chainmail with two nasty looking axes dangling from his belt. Yes, Diedar had quickly learned that you didn't get a low profile as a dragonborn in this part of the Empire. You got lots of stares and "Oi, what's wrong with his face then?" instead.

Never one to let curiosity pass him by Horas neatly placed his map and his tools into his backpack and moved towards the lone dragonborn.

'And what brings one of you people to this fine establishment?' Horas asked as he took a place beside the fire.

Diedar ignored the elf, and especially the remark you people, as he continued to gaze in the crackling flames. The flames brought back unpleasant memories of death and destruction and of a village being destroyed. Though it brought him some pain Diedar reckoned it was good to remember, especially when he found the memory to be fading.

'It's just that you don't see many of your race here.' Horas continued. 'In all my travels I don't think I ever saw one of you in these parts. I thought you preferred it down south, I distinctly remember seeing a village of dragonborn there.'

'When?' Diedar growled.

'Oh, it must have been years ago, I should thi-'

'No,' Diedar interrupted the high elf with the same menacing growl. 'When did I say I wanted to talk you?'

'Now see here.' Horas began but was interrupted when the door to the tavern opened and a dwarf in an outfit that could only be described as a riot of colours stumbled into the tavern.

'Well hello, my darlings.' He said to no one in particular. 'Tonight is, dare I say it, your lucky night, for Elton the renowned bard has decided to grace your fine establishment with his art!'

If there was a word that could best describe the collective reaction of everyone in the tavern at the strange sight of the dwarf in every shade of pink and white leather boots it would probably have been: "What?"

'Ah, I see you fine fellows are overwhelmed by my illustrious presence.' Elton said, completely unfazed. 'Not to worry, that has been known to happen from time to time. Should you have the coin and the good taste for a song you can find me at the bar.'

And with that the dwarf promptly wandered off towards the bar and the rather flabbergasted inn-keeper.

It is at this time that our attention is to be drawn to another patron who was sitting alone at a table. In his case it was not that he sought solitude, but rather that solitude had found him whether he liked it or not. After all, very few people felt the need to go and strike up a conversation with a man wearing a military cloak and the kind of armour you only found on high ranking officers in the Legions and whose sword and shield were within easy drawing range.

His name was Learchos and he was indeed a high ranking officer in the Legions, at least he had been right up until he had fallen out of favour with the Imperial court and had seen the command of his Legions passed over to someone who was more qualified. "More qualified" in this case meant being the son of one of the scheming nobles that were thirteen in a dozen at the Imperial court. Still, it was hard to argue with such a merit based system of promotion, so Learchos now found himself looking at the bottom of his tankard and wondering what had happened to his beer.

And, with the opening of the sturdy tavern door, we now come to the last of our protagonists. A hooded wood elf in a robe underneath which glittered a coat of gilded chainmail. The mad gleam in his eyes as well as the mace he carried made every patron decide that their current drink warranted a close investigation.

'What a den of inequity and sinners have I stumbled upon?' The wood elf asked to no one and everyone.

The investigation of the drinks became even more frantic.

'Fear not, good people.' The wood elf said again. 'Fons shall hear your confessions and absolve you of your sins after I have anointed my parched throat with a tankard of ale!'

The patrons began to exchange nervous glances at each other. This night began to look like the beginning of an adventure and as they got the uneasy feeling that they would not be partaking all that much in the actual adventuring they began to mentally downgrade the odds of themselves surviving the night.

'Lots of weird buggers here tonight.' Said a gruff, thickly accented voice.

There was a hushed silence. Well, not so much a silence as the complete absence of sound as the patrons wondered who would have been so stupid as to actually say what everyone was thinking.

'Who said that?' Demanded Fons.

'I did, Thorin Rocksplitter is the name.' The voice was revealed to belong to a thickly set dwarf with a thick, black beard. He wore a fine red tunic and an embroidered sea-green cloak was draped over his shoulders. The hammer he wore at his belt looked like it was equally adapt at splitting skulls as it was at splitting rocks.

By now you could cut the tension in this room with a knife.

'Now, my friends, why don't we all just calm down and have beer?' Elton tried to smooth things over.

'Piss of, you pink fairy.' The other dwarf snapped at Elton who began to back away. 'This woodland sprite seems to have a problem with me.'

'Not with you.' Fons said, the mad gleam in his eyes taking on lunatic intensity. 'Just with dwarfs in general.'

'Is that a fact?' Thorin said, his hand reaching to the handle of his hammer.

'My good man,' the armoured form of Learchos rose from his seat and moved between the elf and the dwarf. 'Surely there is no need for violence?'

'I've about had it with you military types thinking you can do as you please.' Thorin spat. 'Aren't you supposed to hide behind your men when there's a fight?'

'What did you say, you little bastard?' Learchos hissed and drew his sword, the very notion of diplomacy completely erased from his mind. 'You think you can insult my honour? Insult the Empire?'

'Bugger your Empire!'

Learchos his sword moved in an arc towards the dwarf, but the blow never landed. There was the sound of something heavy impacting on something squishy. This was followed by a yell of pain and a cry of "You bloody goldsucker!" as Learchos clutched at his broken toe.

The fight would have escalated quickly if the door of the tavern had not once again been flung open, this time to admit members of the city guard.

'What's all this then?' One of the guards demanded. 'Are we havin' a disturbance of the peace?'

'Nothing of the sort.' Now it was Horas' turn to get involved. 'Just an argument that got a little heated.'

The guardsman looked Horas up and down and classified him as a "foreigner" which in the guardsman's mental landscape instantly made him the root cause of whatever problem he was facing.

'You damn knife-ears,' growled the guard. 'Always causing trouble when you get away from your trees.'

'I bloody well beg your pardon?' Horas said indignantly.

'Yeah, you 'eard what I said.' The guardsman snapped. 'And don't even get me started on that big lizard I see skulking in the back there. Seems to me like you lot are on the wrong side of a prison door!'

It was at this point that Elton moved towards the stricken form of Learchos.

'I can fix that toe of yours with a sparkle of magic, if you can talk some sense into those oafs.' The bard told Learchos. 'I reckon they're smart enough to recognize authority but dumb enough not to question it.'

'Seems like a fair deal.' Learchos said through gritted teeth. No sooner had the words left his lips than a pink mist enveloped his right boot and the pain in his toe went away.

Learchos son of Leartes, former strategos of the Legions of the Western Frontier, rose to his full height and went military on the guards.

'What is the meaning of this damn disgrace?' He demanded of the lead guardsman who now turned his attention away from Diedar and Horas.

'We're just keeping the pea-'

'Quiet, boy!' Learchos snapped. 'You can damn well speak when I tell you to speak! And… Is that rust I see? Is that rust I see on your armour?!'

The guard's higher brain functions began to retreat in the face of Learchos' relentless onslaught, leaving behind only a deep sense of obedience drilled into him during his training.

'N- no,' The guard said in a tiny voice, he looked around for reassurance from his comrades and found there was none to go around. 'Might be sauce from that kebab I ate for dinner.'

'Sauce from…' Learchos' stare intensified as he processed the guard's reply. 'Never in my entire career have I seen such a shameful display!'

'But…'

'Silence!' Learchos snapped again. 'Now here is what's going to happen, me and these fine fellows are going to walk out of here and you will count yourselves lucky that I won't rapport you. Have I made myself clear?'

'But we have to arrest someone.' The guard protested.

'Then I suggest you find a crime somewhere.' Learchos said and turned on his heels to march out of the door.

After a moment's hesitation he was followed by Diedar, Horas and Fons. The latter spoiled the dignity of the moment by tripping over the doorstep and landing on his chin.

The bewildered guards were left in the tavern with a vague feeling in their minds that whatever it was that just happened had not, in fact, happened if only because this sort of thing was not supposed to happen.

The mental processes of the guard who was so viciously berated by Learchos was interrupted by a hand tugging at his uniform.
'You can arrest me if you like.' Elton told him. 'I never did mind wearing handcuffs.'