The Fallen

Chapter Two

   The sky was dark. Greasy smoke rose from the factories to the south while black clouds streamed overhead and icy rain fell in thick sheets to obscure the road ahead, turning it into a bog. Tall houses with roofs angled outwards stood on either side of the road, casting a permanent shadow across the street and making the place feel very claustrophobic. This was Bractium. A town on the eastern coast of the Arbor Lands and a fairly busy seaport. Ferries from here to Cædis in Pratum departed everyday, carrying with them all manner of strange people and goods, not all of them legal. It was not, despite first impressions, a nice town. However, it was here that the three had come to seek answers as to the whereabouts of the Teeth of Ganthor.

Sylvaren lifted the base of his hood and leant out of the alley way he was obscured in to glance warily along the road. Empty, just as he liked it. Quickly he moved out onto the narrow street. Behind him was Jiména, similarly clad in a long, hooded travellers cloak and complaining incessantly about the unpleasant conditions. A light appeared at the end of the street and they ducked back into the alleyway they had only recently left.

"This is ridiculous" Jiména muttered under her breath "We'll never get anywhere at this rate" she gripped the hem of her cloak and drew it even tighter around herself, shivering. It had been two months since the attack on their village and, while anger still burned inside them both, only now did it feel like they were getting anywhere. False leads and dead trails were all they'd come across until Cascus had informed them that he'd got a hint that there was someone who knew something and that someone was here in Bractium. It was a very vague message but it was the best lead they had. The lights were getting closer and Sylvaren could now hear the hum of voices over the persistent wind

"Guards" he hissed quietly, pressing himself against the wall. A few seconds later they appeared. A dozen guards strolled passed the alley, paying little attention to what was around them and talking lazily among themselves. Four of them carried torches, sputtering in the rain and leaving a trail of dirty smoke behind them.

"Good to see they're so well trained" Jiména observed with a grin "no wonder this city's so safe". Sylvaren shared her humour, with guards like this their task just got a whole lot easier. The guard patrol passed without a fuss and, once again, Sylvaren looked out at the street,
"Clear" he said quickly, ducking out once again into the shadows of the road

"Clear like last time or is it actually clear now" Jiména joked dryly, following him out nonetheless. Sylvaren chose to ignore that and carried on along the road.

Their reached their destination, a tavern called The Broken Hook, with a picture of a bent fishing hook beneath very crudely carved letters on a sign that swung and creaked in the wind, without incident, only having to duck into doorways or alleys to avoid the guard patrols. There seemed more than Sylvaren would have expected.

On either side of the doorway, which itself was simply a thin wooden pallet, where two pathetic torches, sputtering like those of the guards and giving off little in the way of warmth. Sylvaren pushed the door open, noticing as he did so that it was coming off its hinges, something that didn't particularly surprise him, and entered the building. The first thing he noticed was the smell, a cruel mixture of body odour, mould and rotting food. The floor was covered in a thick layer of straw that looked like it hadn't been changed since the unification and in the corners of the door were thick piles of mud where generations of farmers and sailors had attempted to clean their shoes before they came in. The windows were filthy to the point that they may as well not have been there and the candles on the tables, the only source of light in this dismal place, threw out so much smoke that they were more or less a waste of space. The people here fit the room perfectly, Sylvaren thought to himself, Sailors from the port in tar smeared tunics and farmers in muddy hose lolled around the tables, laughing loudly and drinking heavily. Standing in the doorway, Sylvaren observed this den of filth with an expression of deepest disgust clear on his face. Jiména motioned to him and pointed to a table in one of the corners at which was sat an older man and another figure. The old man was Cascus, Sylvaren would recognise him anywhere though he did not know the other. Jiména led the way over to the table, weaving her way through the forest of bodies until she finally reached the two and took a seat beside Cascus, greeting him quietly. The table, she noticed as she sat down, was in much the same state as the rest of the building. The surface was pitted and worn, the result of years of mugs being slammed down and most likely the occasional bar fight taking its toll. As Sylvaren took a seat opposite Jiména, the cloaked figure he now sat beside removed its hood. It was a young man with a pale and rather beautiful face. Slim and well angled though with a crooked nose that looked like it had been broken at some point in the past. His light brown hair was in a style Sylvaren had noticed a lot around here, with shaven sides and the long hair of the top drawn back into a bun. The man looked over to the new comers and smiled.