The Whisper of Cold Options

[Darkwing]

The whisper of cold. The flutter of cloth. The flash of steel.
The shadows moved.



A mighty roar rang out into the streets from the well lit room. The clash of blade and sneers of malice filtered drunkenly through the damp fog. Then a joyous laugh from the barman silenced all as the combatants collapsed in a heap upon their fractured tables. Breathing heavily the two warriors nodded at each other and returned to their drinks, sheathing their worn knives.

The Stalwart Arms was normally a quiet tavern, but times have changed since the arrival of the Pilgrims. The citizens no longer wander the streets with confidence; fear has replaced this luxury. Many people have gone missing, and just as many have been found ravaged and torn asunder in the sewers and back alleys, where only the brave or foolish care to venture. It is said that the streets are haunted. By what, nobody seems to know, and those who find out… well, they are soon found in those sewers and back alleys. By day, there is a peace across the City, delicate but present, only to be shattered upon the sinking of the Sun. And when the Sun does finally disappear, then the Stalwart Arms soon fills with those seeking comfort and company.

The low slung beams of chipped and warped Oak line the ceiling of the tavern. Hung on each beam are an assortment of antiquities, ranging from hand woven willow bracelets to gnarled steel blades with intricate designs adorning their hilts and blade. The beams run into thickly cobbled walls after about thirty feet, where they seamlessly disappear into the grit and granite. Breaking up the walls are two windows on each wall, looking out into darkened alleyways and vibrant households. During the day, the Sun’s rays are broken and fractured by the poor workmanship on the glass, and the room is showered in a spectrum of colour. Now, those dark alleyways are borrowing this trait, but the light can only penetrate a short distance, dancing across the backs of the poor fools who face life in the damp, squalid conditions, before it is swallowed by the unholy darkness. The heavy door offers the tavern a sense of sanctuary unfound in the City, aside from the Garrison which is now over run with rats and disease, testament to the Empire’s corruption. The tavern is filled with jovial spirits and easy laughter as the ale flowed quickly and the entertainment warmed up. At this moment, it was hard to imagine the fear under the laughter, and the anxiety in the voices.

The lights started to dim. Candles were extinguished and the patrons were sent home, full of ale and drunken confidence for tomorrow. The smoke that had lazily drifted from the chimney finally gave in to the light breeze and died down. The shadowed streets were no longer peppered with fragments of light. The darkness hung heavy in the night. And the spirits of those who walked through it grew even heavier.

Gildanor arose from his table. The tavern was dark. He looked around and saw many people slumped on tables as he had done. Most of the others had gone home. It seemed the barman either did not have the strength, or heart, to throw these drunks into the streets. His thickly muscled arms bore the injuries from a few hours before. He was certain that had he lost that fight, he would not be here now, as the money gained had quickly gone to the barman and his fine drink.

Rising to his feet, he quickly grabbed for a chair as he felt his balance begin to wane. His head felt heavy and his vision was foggy. Gildanor reminded himself that next time he might take it a little easier, as he was now out of money and it was the dead of night. Not a good time to head home. Instead, he decided to sit back down, feeling comfortable among his fellow drunks, and let his head sink towards the table. Resting his head on his arms, he let his eyes drift together and glanced at the door one last time. His eyes flicked open in alarm as he saw the heavy door swing open slowly, a cold blast of night air rushed over his flushed cheeks. Something stirred in the street, but the moonlight did little to describe it. What little light there was seemed to sink into darkness as if a great mist had blanketed the City. Fear started to torrent through his body, begging him to move, but as he tried to rise, his body felt far too heavy. An unnatural weight brought him to his knees, then the floor. His eyes closed slowly, though he fought back, but the unnatural weariness he felt was dragging him into a deep sleep. The last thing he saw was the darkness crawl across the floor, ragged cloth fluttering lightly in the nights breeze, and then nothing.

The chill of cold. The feel of cloth. The pain of steel.
The shadows moved.