Those That Fight

Chapter One

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The Mercenary

The mercenary turned a gold piece over and over again in her fingers as she stood on the dock, overlooking the never-ending mass of water. It would have been a good business day, the best in a long time, if her client had not paid in counterfeit gold pieces. With a sudden surge of rage she bent the gold piece in half and threw it into the dark water. She rested her elbows on the dock's railing, raking her fingers violently through her hair. She wasn't making enough money to support her family at the capital. The capital she could no longer return to.

Ranas massaged her furrowed brow. She straightened up and lifted her face to the inky, black sky, her breath clouding the crisp night air. The bright moon's light made the distant stars seem dim, reflecting its light in the infinite darkness of the water. And the wind whispered to her weary senses.

She backed away from the railing and pulled a folded piece of parchment from beneath the collar of her shirt, tucked neatly under the firm strap of a leather armored vest. Ranas carefully unfolded the paper, a flyer that had appeared and vanished in the span of a single night.  The blank once-blank edges were now filled with scribbles of notes. A bed, meals, and safety. But for the performance of a job, of course. A job that apparently could no be expressed publicly.

Her feet seemed to move before her consent. She strutted off the dock, walking with a solemnity that spoke of the weight of lives on her shoulders. As she stepped off the dock and onto the stone cobbles, she crumpled the flyer in her hands and dropped it onto the ground.

The Street Rat

Once the loud clicking of boots on the cobblestones began to fade, the street rat crawled out of the shadows of the alleyway. His stomach growled its protest at the movement. The rags he wore did little to shield him from the night's cold. He cautiously observed his surrounding before reaching out and snatching up the crumpled paper with grimy fingers.Corrin straightened out the parchment in his hands.

A bed? Meals? Safety? It almost sounded too good to be true! Any job and stability would be better than the hell he was living. He looked up, down the road. Corrin slowly got to his feet and started off, the wrinkled parchment in hand.

The Con Man

The con man took another swig of wine from the large bottle in his hand as he loosened the collar of his shirt. He removed his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair before slumping down in it. He lifted the bottle and downed another long sip, staring out over the spacious room. The room was filled with luxurious and exotic furniture, cluttered with rugs and tapestries. All he did was stare and continue to drink from the bottle. Disgust. That was all he felt.

Neriad's face twisted in frustration and he chucked the bottle across the room; it shattered against the far wall. He jumped to his feet, taking the chair in his grasp, and sent it clattering to the floor. He slammed his hands down on the table, but stopped. Beneath the piles of papers the corner of the flyer poked out.

All his anger having left him, he pulled up the flyer from beneath the stacks. He leaned against the mahogany dining table as he stared at the paper he held. Neriad lifted a hand and brushed back the dark hair from his pale, blue eyes.

He set the flyer down on the table before bending down and taking hold of the fringe of the foreign rug at this feet. He threw it back, revealing the outline of a trapdoor embedded in the wooden floorboards. Straightening up, he picked up his jacket and pulled it on. He strode over to an antique vanity, examining himself as he buttoned his collar and straightened his jacket. He paused and just looked at himself before slicking his hair back and taking up his hat off the vanity.