The procession would not have seemed out of place in the old days, even in the darkest hours of night. The warrior Vick Varonne, in gleaming plate mail, his helmet tucked under one arm and his hand and a half sword hung at his hip, very nearly dragging to the ground. A cloak was slung about his shoulders, then pinned close to his back by his lion's head shield. The metal was worked to resemble a snarling lion, with the mane flared out to cover most of the surface of the metal. Always first to battle, always leading the way, Vick stood proud in front.
Behind him, Daphne was as devastating as ever. Her long, lustrous hair hung unbound, a cascade of night about her slender form. Her tanned flesh was squeezed into the tight embrace of black leathers. More supple than the ones Alan Tinsley wore, they were fitted to her body. Flashes of smooth, tanned flesh were visible here and there: at her shoulders, a thin strip across her midriff, and just the slightest glimpse of her thighs between where the fall of her pleated leather skirt didn't quite cover the tops of her thigh high, stiletto heeled, black leather boots. Long black gloves covered her dextrous hands, and a pair of viciously curved daggers crisscrossed one another in sheaths at the small of her back. Within one hand a short hunting bow of black lacquered wood and layered sinew was held, already strung, and slung over one shoulder was a quiver with perhaps a dozen black fletched arrows.
Then came Alan Tinsley. Perhaps the least obtrusive of the bunch by design, his own lean frame was draped about with his worn travel cloak. It concealed the dark leathers beneath, patches of strange tanned hide that seemed to shift with the shadows, when the material was visible from time to time it could hardly be told from the darkness of night itself. Beneath that cloak, a gloved hand rested upon the hilt of his short bladed sword, as if he expected ambush at any moment.
It was like something out of the old days, the night air still fresh from the earlier rain, the moon glimmered down from above, and there Alan was looking at a perfectly peaceful stroll down to the old haunt as a potential spot to get his ass kicked. He thought he left these days far behind. Nervous glances into the shadows of each alley and side-street they passed revealed nothing threatening.
Of course, it wasn't all like the old days. He was much grayer, Vick was much fatter, and Daphne? Well she hadn't aged a day. Even an elf should have earned an extra strand or two of gray. But then, they all knew the reason why she was as fresh as ever. Then there was the matter of their tail. Two guards from the Count's estate followed like eager dogs. Fresh faced and just out of training, from the looks of them, Alan wasn't certain what the two boys would do if they encountered any real resistance.
"Are they really necessary?" Alan near hissed the question, which was met only with a laugh.
"It would look more suspicious if I went out after dark without an escort. Don't you agree? Just relax old friend, this city isn't like it was under the Usurper."
"Both of you should spend more time paying attention to your surroundings," Daphne's words had an unexpected edge, "We've had a tail for almost three blocks now."
Alan cast his gaze about without moving his head, trying to catch some sign of their so called pursuer. "I don't see anyone," He finally admitted.
"Behind you and to your left, about a hundred feet back."
That was disturbingly and unnecessarily close for a night with no crowds to hide amongst. Alan lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck, and took the opportunity to glance back over his shoulder. There was no one he could see, but, "A rat."
"Yeah. It's been following us purposefully." The elf maid did not seem amused. "And it's not one of mine."
"Still hanging out with vermin, Daph?" Vick's merry voice rose with more volume than either Daphne or Alan were comfortable with. Both winced as he continued in that same tone, "I guess it takes a parasite to know a parasite."
Daphne frowned, but thought better of voicing her rejoinder.
Ahead, there was the familiar sight of the old tavern the company had purchased long ago. Even before they were an official group, the founding members of the Reavers had always taken their drinks there. When the old man who owned the place retired, it seemed only natural that they pool their money and purchase it. Ever since, it had been the headquarters of the Reavers, providing a place to stay and rest between adventures, a steady source of income for the operations of the adventuring company during hard times, and a ready source of rumors from travelers passing through. 'Reavers' Rest -- Food, Drink, Lodging', the sign outside proclaimed, and outside there were stone statues of the seven members that had been current during the usurpation crisis. A low stone wall surrounded the inn yard, separating it from the city streets by some distance.
A lone figure in a long, hooded cloak plucked the strings of a lute as he sat upon the wall. Dressed in forest greens, neither Vick nor Alan had seen the man before. His head was covered, but the dark goatee upon his smiling features was definitely not something either was familiar with. As the group came into view, the hooded man slipped from the wall and sauntered over, still plucking a mournful tune from that instrument. Soft soled boots creaked lightly under each step, and a single, elegant broad sword with a basket hilt swing against his thigh with each step. Tall and lean, the purpose of his approach was unclear to any of them.
Vick slowed his own pace, then stopped, while Alan and Daphne stepped in to either side. All three let hands rest upon their own weapons. The curious minstrel approached to within a dozen yards, before he called forth in a voice as clear as the tones which he drew from the strings of his instrument. "Alan Tinsley, I presume?"
