Tharos was, understandably in a rush, given that death was almost literally snapping at his heels. In the form of several other ship’s crew members he’d insulted, for not ranking worthy of one of the Mysterious letters. Now, understandably of course, they wanted to kill him.
He cursed himself, “Why do I ever try and engage in conversation? I just can’t keep my mouth shut can I?” He turned a corner and sent a bright blast of light behind him.
Pausing to catch his breath against a wall, he cursed again. If they caught him using his magic in that manner back home… no that doesn’t bear thinking about does it? He sighed, content that at least it had been unaspected, one blast of fire magic in this part of town, and the priests would be the least of his worries.
Also, on the bright side, he’d killed the only one of them who knew his name. Suitably cheered, Tharos pushed himself off the wall and took off at a run. “let’s see, left at Winter’s downfall, right at Life’s end, straight past Death’s misery… who named this place?” Tharos mutters to himself as he recounts the directions to his goal.
After a while he notices, or rather fails to notice, his pursuers. Finally, the relative safety of the Temple District. He slows down as carefully as possible, not wishing to draw attention to himself, brushing his Caelin robes in what was most likely a futile effort. Head bowed slightly, and he was just another countless acolyte. The perfect cover.
Tharos couldn’t help but avert his gaze abashed from the majesty of the Hearthtemple, as he approached. Somewhere in that daunting edifice his god judged him, and rightly so. He’d done a rather poor job of his religious duties of late, but that was all going to change. He just needed the right act of penance, and this job offer seemed the perfect place to find it.
Tharos frowned, why was he so certain redemption waited in this letter? He must have received hundreds in his career, a Caelin never got much rest it seemed, why this one with so little information? He didn’t know, and beyond a mild curiosity, he decided he didn’t care.
He stopped short as he reached his destination. “You have got to be kidding me” he said, staring at the old building. It was an absolute shamble of an Inn, literally leaning on the Hearthtemple for support. He took the building in, the windows were merely scraps of wood slapped together in an approximation of shutters, the door looked like a good wind would knock it in, and on the stoop by the door, was a pile of Crumpled Letters. “That can not be good” for that many people to so formally reject the Letter of Mark. It must be dangerous. A worthy penance mused a soft voice in his head.
Tharos nodded in agreement and started forward On the other hand spoke another voice, this one harder, colder. The employer might be crazy Tharos stopped engaged in a brief but intense debate. The soft voice won out, however. Tharos stepped onto the porch and kicked the mud off his boots.
Judging by the state of the porch, it was newer than most of the building. A fair few of its timbers were still strong and solid. He went to look at the door, when a slight movement caught his eye. Turning his head quickly back he saw nothing but a fresh looking board, with a clump of dirt from his boot. Odd, he could have sworn that that specific plank had been a rotten scrap. Tharos shook his head, and pushed open the door.
The first thing he noticed was the dust. A genuine carpet of it, only disturbed by a few single boot prints. Only left boot prints, what’s with that? He thought to himself.
Perhaps people generally take the first step over the threshold with their left foot? Mused the soft voice
Or the floor is home to a Daemon that eats right feet mused the hard voice.
Why only the right foot? replied the soft voice curious
Well it’s generally agreed to be the better tasting foot
Among who?
Foot devouring daemons, of course.
Will both of you quiet down Tharos thought hard, feeling slightly relieved when he felt 2 pangs showing his message was received.
Tharos looked into the bar once more, at a booth on the right hand side, sat 4 old men, wearing ragged old jackets, they appeared to not have moved in years. Thick matted hair surrounded their faces. Each stared deep into what appeared to be empty tankards. Against the far wall a 5th man stood behind the bar, absently wiping the same glass over, and over.
Just as he came to the obvious conclusion that they were corpses. One turned to the others and spoke. “Say, did I ever tell you all how I defeated that Swordmaster, Hillthiar the Quick?”
Satisfied that this was not some sick abattoir to lure him in, Tharos went to step forward when another of the group spoke up and dispelled his other assumption, they were not all men, one of them, no two of them were women. “No Edrin, how’d you manage that?” One of the Women chimed in. “Yeah tell us” chimed the second one.
Tharos stepped over the threshold with his left foot, and two things happened simultaneously. A great cloud of dust rose up in front of him, and he felt an Intense surge of magic. Eyes widening as he prepared for an attack. None came, but he found the wind knocked out of him just the same.
The bar was no longer a Dark and Dingy ruin. It looked to be a lively Inn, four young duelists in exquisite jackets sat in the booth. Laughing as one in their number demonstrated complicated thrusts and cuts. From behind a magnificent Oak bar, a tall young man with a seemingly constant smile lifted four foaming tankards as he seemed to glide towards the Duelists “Another round then? To your victory Edrin!” He laughed, clapping the man on the shoulder as he described the apex of his duel.
Tharos stared, every surface gleamed, every light seemed merry, a massive contrast to the previous scene. He clutched his head as another rush of Magic buffeted him like a storm. The Bar was changed again, now the four figures in the booth were shrouded by heavy cloaks, and the Barkeep was nowhere to be seen.
Slowly, Tharos creeped in. As his right foot touched the floor, all four figures looked up at him in unison. He nearly screamed and for good reason. Four rotting corpses seemed to stare right into his soul. Tharos went to leave, but as he did a hand grabbed his shoulder. Shivering uncontrollably, Tharos turned to face whoever was touching him. The dead face of the Barkeep stared right back at him. “You go now, you’ll find no easy road to redemption. You’ll find no solace when this becomes reality lad.”
Tharos couldn’t help himself, he screamed, and ran, with a quick glance back through the swinging door, he saw the scene as he’d first glimpsed it from outside again. Tharos ripped the letter from his pocket, crumpled it and tossed it onto the pile. One more glance back made Tharos stop. No longer was the Inn leaning on the Temple, somehow, it now stood on it’s own, but barely. Carried to him by the wind as the door slowly started to swing back to closed. Tharos could just hear a set of chilling words “Say, did I ever tell you all how I defeated that Swordmaster, Hillthiar the Quick?”