Touch of Fate

A decrepit beggar, little more than a skin sack full of bones, was lying in a gutter near the northern gate of Wyrport. Any casual observer would likely assume that the beggar was on his last legs, both literally and physically, since his worm-eaten peg leg was just about to fall apart.

A group of four adventurers left through the gate. The beggar, who for all intents and purposes had been simply staring into the distance, leapt up onto his one remaining foot. No sooner had he accomplished this somewhat impressive feat, before he was hobbling down a nearby alley.

His path took him into the oldest and most decayed section of the city slums. He made his way into a simple and nondescript house. It was clearly abandoned, without even the usual squatters that such a building would acquire in this part of town.

The beggar knew that no one would be in the house, none of the slum dwellers would have dared.

He carefully descended a set of stairs leading down into the basement. It was nearly pitch black, but he moved with practiced ease over to a large metal door set into the wall. With a groan he pulled it open, release a dry and dusty odor from the room beyond.

The beggar walked out into the largely empty chamber. Small, white ghost lights illuminated the room allowing him to navigate his way towards a large stone coffin resting upon a raised dais.

He kneeled at the foot of the coffin, and began muttering with fanatical devotion. "Master, I've been keeping watch as you requested. The Hero has left the city in the company of three other adventurers."

There was a sepulchral gasp, and one clawed hand gripped the side of the coffin. The skin was grey and dry. It carried with it the dusty and chilling scent of an old grave.

A wheezing ancient voice issued from the confines of the coffin. "Good.....good...Find....Brutus....have...him.....retrieve.....the....Hero."

The crazed beggar grinned with manic delight. "As you wish, Master. This humble servant will fulfill your wishes."

"Give...me....your.....blood....I...need...to.....contact...the.....Mistress."

"Of course, Master." The beggar produced a knife and placed it against his arm. Several scars, some of which were still in the process of healing covered the limb. With practiced ease, the beggar cut another line into his flesh before hanging it over the coffin.

The grey, corpse-like hand grabbed his arm, dragging into down into the depths of the coffin. Horrifying sucking sounds filled the air, as the beggar's face twisted into rictus of ecstasy.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Hundreds of kilometers away, in the town of Mayde, a large man covered in muscles that had long ago run to fat, entered into his favorite tavern. He lumbered over to the bar and sat down, while glaring at the other patrons. Wisely, they decided to call it a day early and soon the tavern was deserted.

"I thought we talked about this, Anton. You really need to stop scaring off my customers." A large, bald, and mustachioed man, who was standing behind the bar, spoke while casually wiping down a mug. His tone suggested that he didn't have any real expectation of persuading his patron.

"Eh, a pox on them! I need a drink, and I don't want an audience while I do it. Got to live up to my reputation." The guildmaster (office manager) of the Mayde branch office of the Adventurer's Guild dismissed the concerns of his friend.

James, the tavern owner, was a former party member of Anton's, and ever since the group had broken up, Anton had been coming here to drink.

At first it had been friendly, but in recent years, Anton had increasingly become bitter and angry, jealous of others success, even while he went through the motions of running the Mayde branch. In time he had been reduced to a shadow of his former self.

James saw the process, but could do little to slow the decline of his friend. At the very least he could try to make sure that Anton drank in moderation.

He sighed, while pouring his old friend a mug of his favorite ale. "Don't you think its a little early to start this?"

"Pah, a few drinks never hurt anyone." Anton replied cheerily.

After an hour or so, James was running low on ale. "Alright Anton, I need to go run and grab another cask from the cellar. Keep an eye on the bar for me."

Anton raised his mug in response, before quaffing the rest of its contents. James sighed again, and left through the back door.

At almost the same time, a cloaked figure with its hood up entered through the front. It took a seat next to Anton, and a strangely hollow voice of an indeterminate gender issued forth.

"So this is the legendary Earthen Terror. It sad to see such powerful individual languishing in this backwater town."

Anton glared at the newcomer, a little too drunk to fully understand the oddness of the situation. "I don't know who you are stranger, but you better be carefully how talk to me."

"Of course, of course. I haven't introduced myself yet. You can call me Grimm. I'm a big fan of yours. I just thought it was a shame that you've never gotten the recognition you so rightly deserved."

Anton huffed. "Well you got that right. Its a damn shame, is what it is." He went to take another swig of his drink, but he'd forgotten that he'd already emptied it.

He tossed the mug angrily, and Grimm with a serious stare. "So, what is it that you want? I can't imagine that you just came here to talk over old triumphs."

Grimm raised its hands in a placating gesture. "I represent an organization that is looking to bring in some....new blood, so to speak. We want powerful individuals, ones with the skills and experience to handle all kinds of situations."

"Huh, then you haven't really been keeping up with me. Ever since my knee injury, I'm a shadow of my former self." Anton replied huskily, eyes staring into an unseen distance.

He lost most of left knee joint in a particularly bad encounter with a chimera. He was able to have the majority of the wound healed, but he had never been able to bend it properly since. This caused him to walk with an awkward lurch. Additionally, he had almost rendered himself destitute in order to pay for the treatment he had received. The combination of factors had led to his retirement from active adventuring.

"Ah, but you see, that's the crux of my argument. We can offer you," Grimm leaned conspiratorially, making sure to enunciate his next words, "full...recovery."

Anton looked shocked. He new very well the kind of price he would need to pay to have a divine caster treat his injury. Even as an active Rank 6 adventurer, that kind of money was out of reach.

"Really?" He whispered, almost daring to hope.

"Of course, such a thing is a simple matter for our organization. Indeed, we can even offer a few special items that will greatly increase your strength. Join us, and I can guarantee that you will soon be a match for any Rank 8 adventurer."

Anton looked interested, but he retained enough of his sense to recognize the offer for what it was, a deal with the devil.

"And what would your organization want from me in return for these gifts?"

"We are planning a little event in the near future. Help us with it, and we can get you exactly what you want. As soon as its over, you are welcome to walk away with everything."

It sounded far too good to be true, but he couldn't help being tempted. Anton pictured what his life would be like on its current path, a washed up shell of a man, quietly wasting away in this backwater. If he could change that, alter that grim fate, what would he be willing to give? His honor? His soul?

He was suddenly reminded of a blood-red crystalline heart, and the newbie adventurer that brought it to him. He could still picture the look of disdain from that upstart. Rage coursed through him. Rage at the newbie, at his own destiny.

Anton clenched a fist and spoke in a low, rough voice. "Tell me more."

It was impossible for the office manager to tell, but at that moment, Grimm smiled for the first time in a very long while. After all, it had just gotten exactly what it wanted.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Mike sneezed. He had been getting weird reactions from his Detect Hostile Intent skill all morning, and it was starting to get on his nerves.

Philip, who was providing a near-constant source of hostile intent, was still complaining, off and on, about Mike. It had proven highly distracting, but he still caught flashes of intent that seemed both intense and distant. He hoped the skill wasn't malfunctioning somehow.

"I still can't believe that you are saddling us with an unknown quantity on this potentially dangerous mission." Philip was saying, for about the fifth time since they had left the city.

"Would you give it a rest! I can't stand any more complaining. The decision has been made. DEAL WITH IT!" Kate had finally had enough of Philip's whining and snapped at him.

Philip responded by getting moody and silent, but everyone could tell he was going to start up again soon.

Mike decided that it would be best to head this off before it evolved into a fight. "So...perhaps you can give me a little more information regarding this mission I've signed up for?"

The trio exchanged glances, and then started explaining.