The Annals of Anteoth: Shadows and Light: The Annals of Anteoth, #1

By Amanda Davis

In the realm of Anteoth the wounds of war have yet to heal. The Elven wars have long since ended and the humans assistance has come with a price. The alliance between the races is strained as claims of debt create a constant hatred. But the ghosts of the past have come back to haunt the elven people as the Torrid clan rises again. Banished from their homeland, they seek to reclaim their birthright and call forth an ancient evil that sleeps within the pure heart of a priestess. The Ophaelic elves are not prepared for the slaughter that will come. Their only hope rests with the unlikely heroes of a guild known as Vengeance, a rare collaboration of humans and elves that lives in the human capitol of Thrane. The young Ophaelic priestess, Whistler, has come in search of aid, having suffered the shadow's torment at every turn. Her chance encounter with the guild's undead knight, Khordan, might be Anteoth's last chance for survival. Join Khordan and the members of Vengeance as they fight to drive back the Torrid threat and unite the races again. A shadow has fallen over the land and all are subject to her wrath. She is darkness. She is death. She is Rae.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amanda Davis
• Release date: Feb 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393602170

Book preview

Prelude

The treacherous bog rolled on for miles far beneath the crow’s watchful eye. Dead wood and ruined waters gave birth to a foul miasma, a choking warning to any who might come seeking the discomfort of a godforsaken land. The loyal familiar surveyed the sprawling landscape, hoping to see his master's staff among the many dying willows. He looked for his lantern, the only sign of life in this otherwise dismal realm. No such light appeared until the tower’s crooked roof materialized through the fog. That broken spire had stood centuries longer than expected, yet even in a state of disrepair, it provided shelter to it’s keeper. 

The bird’s oily feathers shown blue beneath the pale moonlight, heralding his coming to the one who'd left the candle in the window. The old mage had sensed the creature's arrival long before hearing his desperate caw for sanctuary. He opened the portal to his weary friend to allow him entry. The creature rested his wiry feet upon the crumbling stone and proceeded to take his rightful place perched upon the table. 

The faded light of so many half-spent candles flickered about the room. It wasn't the ideal environment. Only a small reprieve from the dark abyss of the rickety staircase below. How that ever-present beast lingered, unable to draw him into its gaping maw. No man had desired to make such a climb in ages and no man likely would again. Those brave enough to try would only find themselves without reward for there was no gold in his possession. He guarded something far more valuable.

He brushed the bird away from the texts spread before him. Though several of these scrolls had been forgotten by the inhabitants of the realm, he would see no harm come to this treasury of knowledge. The old man peered at the countless bottles of questionable fluids in his possession, searching for the one he valued most. It was time to pen yet another piece of Anteoth's past into the endless annals of history.

He turned for a moment to fetch the book. It was the one tome that had served him more than any yellowed piece of parchment in his care. As he placed it on the table the crow cawed again, begging him for the scribbles of the written word. He had shared these tales with many a villager. Kings and Queens welcomed him to court finding amusement at the words passed on by a spell weaver as if they had been mere flights of fancy delivered by a jester. But as he lifted the cover away and began to thumb through the pages, every name and face came flooding back to him. He could hear the swords and cries of battle, smell the smoke of fires that hadn't burned for ages as if they were still ablaze today.  The hearts of lovers cried out to him and the weeping of countless souls rang true. These were more than mere fairy tales. They were truths, a record of the times when elves and men would call each other brother, friend, and for. Both the living and the dead had their place in these pages, and each was right to claim them. His hand took up his feathered quill and the memories took hold. They flowed freely from the depths of his mind, dancing like the images of a most vibrant dream.

The mage lifted his elbow sweeping the length of his sleeve away, his hand poised to write. He set his mind to task and channeled whispers of the past into being once again. The time had come to breathe life into these beings one last time, one last time before the stories ended.

Act 1 The Trouble with Rogues

She stood among the rooftops with her back to the tower, the only one that offered shade from the blinding light of the morning sun. This time of day would typically find her fast asleep or well on her way, trading the unforgiving streets for the crimson hues of her quarters in the guild hall to rest up for yet another night of debauchery. Today, however, was special. Though even she failed to realize to what extent as she waited for her mark.

Black leaned against the cold stone, watching the residents of the capital from high above. She could barely withhold her animosity. The glowing city seemed to go on forever; it’s many spires jutting proudly from the shimmering expanse of white stone masonry. The fine work of generations past had managed to survive a great deal. It was as if no force in Anteoth could break the human’s fighting spirit. It was awe-inspiring or should have been. Thrane was a shining bastion of power meant to strengthen their people as a whole. In their minds, every man was a king and every woman shared in his greatness or at least told of it. The truth of it was, none of them were great. Not a damned soul in all of Thrane impressed her. The streets were littered with ignorant do-gooders who fancied themselves heroes; arrogant, overstuffed peacocks, whose pursuit was nothing but a fevered dream as they pranced about the square. It sickened her. To the rest of her kind, Thrane was a safe haven. But to Black, it was a deep reminder of what would eventually be mankind's downfall, pride.

She was content simply doing what it took to get her next meal, unamused by the idea of smalltime heroics.

The stranger had entered the city under the cover of twilight, long before the market filled with the hustle and bustle of everyday life. He was playing it safe. She'd been tracking his movements ever since he approached the main gate. Though it would have been easy enough to spot him even if the streets had been full, for elves rarely chose to do their business in Thrane these days. Their alliance with the humans had been slowly deteriorating since the elven wars, creating a rift that would continue to grow whether or not the people chose to acknowledge it. Now, it was barely tolerable and every corner of the land whispered about the possibility of rekindling old grudges, the possibility of another war.

Black had eyes for only one, this lone elf. He would be along soon now, separated from the wandering eyes of the crowd. To be able to pick him off without another clever game of chase, ducking and dodging the guards? It was blind luck.

The alley was just below, the perfect place to execute an ambush. It would be concealed and unguarded as usual. The king’s soldiers often patrolled the streets, this particular location off their radar. Today was no different. She’d have rethought her approach under such conditions had the pay been less generous than it was. But the bounty on his head would set her up for a solid month of drinking and dueling, if she could keep the gambling dice in her pocket and resist the urge to double her coin. The slim pickings she'd experienced lately allowed her to overlook the apparent risk, after all he was just one elf, no one important.

There would be no witnesses to the job save for a few sealed wooden crates. They lined every street in the city. It was what the king called war effort. She scoffed at the very idea. There was hardly any effort involved as the mystery goods sat idle for months at a time undistributed to the public where they were most needed. No one could even be sure what their contents were or if they were truly needed. A few men would roam into town from time to time with stories about what was going on at the front, each one more weary than the last. None of them bore the scars of battle though. None of them returned to their widows in pieces as she had seen before. She doubted there was any distant struggle at all. It was no secret that the people loved a good fight. It gathered them to a cause, a cause that united unlikely allies for the greater good. It also filled the royal coffers with blood money. She may as well take her cut. The reason for conflict was irrelevant. It had gone on for so long that most people had forgotten how the ordeal began. Black was sure it was mere land acquisition, the aspirations of a hungry king raiding distant shores miles away from the eyes of his adoring public. It was one of the reasons that the bond between man and elf remained tense. Where their people had come to revere the sanctity of nature and all she provided, humans only saw profit in killing one another. A larger kingdom would mean more power, regardless of how many territories the king’s forces destroyed to make it so. The true value of life was lost on them. Still, she couldn't say that her choices were any better.

Black cleared the creeping notion of guilt away to avoid becoming distracted. She'd given it too much thought already. She had decided long ago that it was better to stick to her own affairs and no amount of stranger’s plight would change her mind. There was no point in getting upset over something that did not impact her directly. Anteoth’s well-being did not concern her, war or no war.

There was movement in the space below as the tall elf entered the alley, his silver hair catching her watchful eye. It was about time fortune smiled on her after a long and fruitless night. Normally she spent it robbing drunkards in the tavern, counting the hours until dawn. This score had made it too difficult to focus.

She studied her target carefully.

The swords on his back were a brief deterrent, but he would never get the chance to use them. This would be quick, but far from painless. His plate armor would count for nothing if she hit the right spot. Even the most tender bits were often neglected in the armor sets that the local blacksmith provided. The throat would be the most vulnerable place as it was rarely covered. Warriors found it difficult to stare down their adversaries with a bulky faceplate in the way and a shield risen in haste was too slow. The elf would likely be wearing a soft leather collar if anything.

Black smiled to herself as he carried on, oblivious to her presence.

Right on time., she mumbled, her deep blue eyes flashing with delight.

She raised herself up from her place of rest and crept to the edge of the roof, poised for the attack.

He seemed clueless as he approached. Perhaps he had been one of the few elves to favor the safety and security of Thrane. There were only a couple, the few hopeful souls that swore mankind would honor the truce between the races and uphold its promise of peace.

Black took them for fools and this one would soon realize what a mistake that trust was.

As he strode along, she dropped down behind him so silently that even his well-attuned ears failed to notice. She had to act fast. The alley was short. In a few feet he would move on into the spacious courtyard and it was too risky to finish the job in the open street. The poor bastard would go here, now, far from anyone who'd mourn his passing. Her arms stretched up around his neck, almost taller than she could reach. He was of great stature, a muscular form both slender where it pleased the eye and threatening in all the right places. Upon closer inspection she noticed his blades were of a traditional elven make. Not surprising for one of his kind, but outdated to say the least. Had the two of them fought one on one, she might have gotten the chance to see such fine weaponry in action. It was almost a shame to deprive herself the opportunity.

Cocky, she slid her dagger from ear to ear, the clean cut of flesh gracing her ego as it had many times before. She loved this feeling and awaited what followed, the warm, familiar sensation of blood spilling over her gloved hand that signaled the end of a wretched life and a job well done. It was oddly comforting to kill a man this way, to embrace them before they fell. For all she knew it might have been the only touch of a woman they'd ever known. Given it was not a personal matter, she considered it a kindness. What she received, however, was not the warmth of life spilling from his neck. Instead, she winced in disgust as cold, congealed blood oozed across her knuckles. It poured over her joints with a sickening gush that made even her skin crawl. Black stepped away and flung her hand aside nauseated and somewhat bitter for the gloves he'd ruined. The figure fell to his knees and grasped his throat. She took a step back and attempted to stifle her vomit as she watched. Though the encounter had been less than pleasurable, the result remained the same. 

She prepared for the inevitable struggle that every man went through, the panic that settled in as he faced his own demise. But, the elf did not gasp for air, nor thrash wildly about. He merely clutched his hand to his neck, slumping over where he knelt. He was a fighter. Rather than succumbing quickly to the cold embrace of death, he'd chosen to spend his last moments reminiscing about heroic deeds of the past. Such an agonizing decision did little more than prolong his end. It was pitiful really. Black smiled to herself and chose to simply walk away. There was no need to stick around now. Watching the elf expire was not necessary as no one survived a coup de gras at her hands. She had delivered many. He would be dead within minutes despite his noble effort.

She slid the filth from her dagger and tucked it away, satisfied with herself for such a clean kill. Her feet had only managed a few steps when she realized the uncanny silence that crept up behind her. She expected to hear the fleshy thud of a man expiring. Instead, she heard the light shuffling of feet. Perhaps there was more fight in him than she thought. Even her most stubborn victim would normally be flailing about clinging to life as he lay in a massive pool of blood. It was never a pretty sight, but then what part of her craft was? 

Against her better judgment, she turned to look back.

Black was horrified to see him rise, no longer clutching, but casually touching his hand to his neck to survey his injury. It was all an act.

What the...?, she marveled.

She was baffled by elf's inability to die. To survive such a deadly stroke meant he was impervious to the blade, perhaps even born of death itself.

No., she gasped.

It was impossible. She'd heard about his kind before but never met one in person. He was a creature bred from magic, spawned from the forces that ran wild in the frozen lands of the north. Neither living nor dead, he was an abomination; a member of the undead swarm that had consumed the Northland's people ages ago. They were said to be rare, extremely rare. To find one casually roaming the streets of Thrane was simply unheard of.

Her eyes grew wide as he lifted himself up, drawing a single flask from beneath his cloak. He then pulled the cork away between his teeth and guzzled the mysterious potion down to the last drop. He was largely unfazed by their encounter, faltering from his injuries for no more than a second. It became abundantly clear that it would take much more effort to finish the likes of him. It was more effort than she had time for. She'd lost the element of surprise and with it, her advantage in battle. This was not the easy score she'd been expecting.

She continued to damn her rotten luck, still frozen in disbelief. And as she watched him, another feeling came to mind, fear. What would happen if the knight decided to return the favor? She suddenly found herself no longer relishing the thought of armed combat with such a creature. His fine elven weaponry would be far less grand on the receiving end. Knowing what he was, she preferred to walk away.

He had regained his composure so easily, acting as if he'd merely stumbled over a pothole in the street. He also appeared much larger than he had from the safety of the rooftop, a good six feet by her measure. His squared shoulders granted him girth. Standing this close to him made it easy for her to envision the worst.

The elf turned toward her. His pale, dead eyes leered at her.

The space between them could not have been more than a few feet. But it was not far enough to keep the chill from rushing down her spine as she anticipated his next course of action. Black stood with her hand at the ready, hoping she'd be quick enough to catch the initial blow. She could feel the beat of her heart echoing through her fingertips. The predator had become the prey.

Now Black had wielded her daggers against the very best and come away victorious in the past. Thieves, assassins, she'd taken them all. But nothing had prepared her for a fight against that which could not be killed. No talent she possessed would finish him quickly enough to avoid bodily harm. She prayed he'd leave the swords upon his back rather than finishing what she had started.

A cold, lifeless wind swept through the shadowed alley, brushing up against her leather-clad thighs with icy fingers. She suddenly longed for the warmth of the sun that spread itself across the rooftops or even the bright light of the courtyard. She did not blink. She would not move. Black had seen the elves in combat before. They were faster and stronger than she was. Even the smallest of them attacked with a level of precision that her kind took years to master. If he attacked, there would be no such display. She was certain he'd take her in one blow.

She stared at him and he stared back, his face without expression. He could see by the way she carried herself that she hadn’t expected him to rise. Surprised or not, it would be a waste to lay the woman low.

Her eyes were bold but void of hatred. Her tight form was covered from head to toe in dark leather. She was most likely a sellsword. But the woman's legs buckled, her fingers twitched. It was fear that made her hesitate, the fear of death he'd retired long ago. How a killer could freeze after engaging an enemy was not a question. Khordan had seen it before. But her   reason for attacking him was a curiosity, one he’d simply have to ignore. He had no time for what she had intended. Though cutting her down would have taken very little effort, it was better to move along. He turned from her and continued on his way, opting to avoid a confrontation. She was of no consequence to the knight who had come to town on business. A body in the street would only draw unwanted attention to an already unwelcome creature like himself.

Black stood motionless, dumbfounded by the encounter and somewhat insulted that he'd chosen to brush her off. What was he doing in the city? He didn't belong there. The way he'd chosen to ignore her was something he had obviously done before and she was sure he hadn’t come wanting anything. He was too well prepared. Whatever his purpose was, she wanted no part of it. Better that she never see his face again.

The rogue shook away the fog that had overtaken her and immediately scowled at the place where he'd been standing. The attempt had been a loss. Now her purse would sit empty. But the knight could have ended her had he chosen to retaliate. As fortunate as she was to have averted disaster, she was not satisfied. She'd come away living, but ultimately wasted her time with him. She'd been sent after this one for nothing. Black rethought her approach to the job she'd taken. Someone made a mistake. How could they have missed what was right in front of them all along? Only a blind man could look at the knight and call him normal. No. She refused to believe it. This was no mistake, someone knew he was undead. It was impossible to believe that her employer had been unaware of such an enormous risk. It was easier to believe they'd gone to great lengths just to locate him. They had most certainly given ample thought to what would become of her. They had counted on her getting into a fight she would never walk away from. This was a set up. She would pay a small visit to her most recent benefactor. What started as a relaxing day had suddenly become an aggravation.

IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL golden morning, so much so that the heat of the day had already started beating down on those who cared to notice. One could only find reprieve in the cooling shade of Thrane's tallest spires. So many people wandered through town carrying out their various daily routines that the main square was becoming crowded. It was all the encouragement Khordan needed to hurry his business along, stopping only when he truly needed to. He much preferred the outer edges of town where fewer people walked. The harsh glares of the townsfolk were reason enough not to linger. He hadn't received fair or kind treatment for some time. After the undead descended upon Anteoth, his kind was doomed to be reminded always of what they were and what they'd done. Though very few of their numbers remained, even fewer made themselves known and with good reason.

It was a turbulent time filled with the screams of many. Scores of innocents fell when the first units marched into Anteoth like an unstoppable plague. Wave after wave of last-minute soldiers raised their swords against the jagged claws of horrors far beyond imagining. Khordan remembered it in excruciating detail even to this day. The living were not prepared when his men came. It was an era that threatened to end the existence of man. Rotted flesh and broken bones stood thigh high for many miles. Sadly, the savagery of the terrible bloodshed would be forgotten, save for the sourness he experienced every day from those who had survived. When the Fallen King perished at last, the human king to follow gave the massacre a title that would erase any chance of remembrance. It came to be known only as the First War, a saddening, bland place in Anteoth's history that would betray those who heard of it. So many would rebuild the kingdom without acknowledging the price their families paid. Even those who were taken into the ranks of the undead remained lost, their duty done. They’d been made to kill and nothing more. There would be no going back. Many would never recover but remain shambling horrors fit only for the grave.

However, not all who served under the Fallen King's command became mindless drones as most assumed. Some were finely tuned soldiers that had commanded armies, spirits who would not give up. Khordan was one such creature in his day. He had lived a life of training under his father. He knew the sword. Unfortunately, it was these same talents that made him the perfect soldier when the Fallen King began his slaughter. His master's death released him from the curse, granting him the free will he had lost during the war. But it could not erase what he had done. His only joy was in recalling what came before. 

In life, he had preferred his mother's influence. There was a gentle nature about her that Khordan had found soothing. He doubted any such creature still existed. The happy memories he found in her company diminished with every moment he pondered his roots. His father was a militant-minded inspiration that served the Ophaelic empire well. Khordan had never embraced the idea of a life of combat however, not even when his father’s training proved him a natural. In the end he'd fled his home. That act was what made him the sole survivor of his village after a band of orcs swept through. They left nothing, taking the life of every man, woman, and child they came across. The chase that followed nearly cost him his life. Things would never be the same.

He'd recently found himself allied to a guild, none so gentle as his mother, but willing to overlook what he was. The group had only admitted him entry after witnessing his skills in combat first hand and even then, he suspected their trust was conditional. At least he could be himself within their ranks. If nothing else, they would provide him sanctuary from the endless wandering he'd come to know.

As one of the undead, Khordan had killed many. He wouldn’t blame them had they chosen to deny him. Countless innocents had fallen before his blade. This life of atonement wasn't much, but even the smallest act served to dull the sting of his guilt

His body was still fit for killing, a jaded reminder of what he used to be. He could at least put his unsavory gifts to good use, though very few would so much as speak to him.

He was covered in scars from battles past. They were trophies, merits earned, but unwanted. He was very different in that time when few had called him friend.

Khordan was still far from perfect. Most Ophaelic elves were of a higher learning, living in the beauty and  serenity of the elven city of Faros. The gaunt sentinel who'd risen from the grave did not count himself worthy of these things.

Silver hair hung just past his shoulders unbound and unbraided. He saw no reason to decorate himself in such a way for it would be useless beside the bluing of his skin. Appearance was irrelevant. The only creature to embrace him had perished long ago.

As he walked through town the common murmurs and nervous shuffles of wary patrons greeted him. Though he had long since broken the dark enchantment that had controlled him, he was still a part of the undead, therefore unwelcome. Mothers pulled their children close and shopkeepers made no small talk, wishing only that he'd leave. He did not react. Instead, he chose to bear their pointed hatred in silence.

He had just left the apothecary in a rather forced transaction when he ventured down the alley. Not a soul had wished to linger here and from the looks of things, it was not his presence that had been the cause. It was simply a less desirable corner of the city.

Footsteps fell behind him. The warmth of a small figure pressed against his back, followed suddenly by the movement of a blade. His throat was slashed from one side to the other. It seemed someone was not content to simply glare at him.

As his assassin grunted in disgust, he fell to the ground in hopes they'd walk away. If the assailant thought he'd completed his task, he'd be more likely to take his leave. Khordan did not get a look at his attacker though he marked their behavior as unnatural. When he fell to the ground, they made no attempt to collect his belongings. Oddly enough, both his satchel and his swords remained on his person. This was no thief, only a killer, and not a particularly stealthy one at that.

To attempt to take his swords would have meant their death, though they were a rare and beautiful prize indeed. He had no doubt they'd fetch a greedy thief his weight in gold, for there were none like them in all of Anteoth. The fiend seemed to know little of elven weaponry. They likely knew less about what swords from that era would be worth today. His coin was as good as any other. The fact that it remained untouched, was nothing short of a miracle. Why kill a man if not for greed?

He listened as the footsteps began to stroll away. It was what he wanted. A second glance would only encourage them to try again and Khordan was still working to gain the trust of his newly acquainted guild. A confrontation would cast doubt he did not want.

Khordan retrieved the potion he'd bought moments before and took a long draw from the bottle. It was a horrid tasting concoction meant to heal a mortal wound, though for him the purpose seemed lost. Such a draught would only close his wound faster, leaving just another scar. It was the curse of what he was. Only great suffering could bring about his end.

He noticed too late that he was not alone. A woman, human no less, stood motionless in the alley. She was a shapely figure wearing long golden locks bound just behind her head. Her eyes were blue and her skin pale. Though she was beautiful she was far from a proper lady. He pitied whatever man was dumb enough to try his hand at this one. The curves of her body made him sure someone had thought to. Her hands gripped her daggers naturally as if she'd always known them. There was a good chance she'd spent her life wielding those blades instead of trading goods on the street, to get by. He imagined what her life must have been like. What drove a woman to become an outcast as she was? There was no place for her profession in the king's city of Thrane, making everyday life just as taxing for her as it was for him.

She looked as if she might attack again. That aside, he had every reason to walk away. He had no wish to fight this woman. He did not know her. It was a misunderstanding and nothing more. He turned to leave her standing in the alley with the hope their paths might never cross again. For if they met under different circumstances he might not be unable to spare her as he did now.

Shrugging off the damage, he headed toward the guild hall. He had already desired not to go to market when the day began making this an unwelcome turn of events. He did, however, find relief in the fact that she made no attempt to finish what she'd started. Khordan did not wish to kill anyone if he didn't have to, least of all a woman. Life was far too precious to waste on pointless violence. He simply placed the empty vial back within his cloak and left her standing there. It was a story he would share with no one, but her face stuck firmly in his mind.

THE GNOME CRIED OUT in fear as she barreled down on top of him. She demanded answers and she would beat him senseless if that was what it took to get them. Many bore witness to her fury, but no patron was brave enough to approach her. It was a wise choice considering her mood.

The tiny man scrambled about like a rat seeking shelter from the jowls of a hungry cat, fleeing in terror from every rage-fueled swing. Black turned over tables and threw chairs aside trying to catch him. Even the barkeeper watched idly from the corner of the room. He wanted no part of the brawl.

W-w- wait!, the gnome cried. 

Don't kill me!

He dove behind the bar hoping to hide himself among a random bag of grain or table scraps, anything that could save him from the beating he would take. Black jumped up on the bar and stepped down as he fell upon his back, shivering and cowering before her.

She snatched him up by the collar and drew him to her face.

Why didn't you tell me he was already dead?, she growled.

Wh-what do you mean?, he stuttered.

The elf. The one you put the bounty on, he's undead, you moron. I can’t kill him!

The rogue jerked angrily at his shirt when she caught his eye peering over her shoulder at the barkeeper, issuing a silent plea for help. Black checked the man's face for incentive. There was none as he continued cleaning his tankard with a dingy rag.

She turned her attention toward the gnome again. He giggled nervously having failed to secure aid.

Well then, the deals off right? No harm, no foul., he suggested.

Black raised her fist wanting so much to pound him into dust.

Not the face!, he cried, hiding behind tiny hands.

She stopped herself. The beat down she would deliver wasn't worth the effort it would take to outrun the guards when she was finished and she was getting tired. The disappointment of her financial loss somewhat outweighed the worm's betrayal, making the choice to carry out his sentence a poor one. Her better reasoning turned out to be his saving grace. Her eyes narrowed. She had always hated their kind, and this was the reason. Few gnomes did business honestly and they weren't clever, but neither were they brave. She only wished she knew who'd put him up to it.

Black released his jerkin with a quick thrust, letting him fall upon the floor. As she stood over him, her eyes ablaze, she realized that questioning him would be just as useless as breaking bones. Any answer that he gave would be a lie. In his terror, the gnome would likely say anything to save his skin. She'd never find out who had it in for her, regardless of what she did to him.

Don't ever contact me again., she warned, stepping over him.

Her boots crunched in broken glass as she stepped back over the bar. It was a sure sign she'd gone too far. She turned toward the barkeeper and gave a false apology, uttered in cold concern.

Sorry for the mess.

He only nodded in reply. This wasn't the first time and it wouldn’t be the last.

Her steps led out the door into open air. She'd always hated this city and days like today did not help. Black detested the fact that she'd been born here, so much so that she never considered it her home. She may have started her life like the many forgotten souls left to fend for themselves in poverty, but she was not one of them. Instead, she chose to live among a select few in a guild called Vengeance, a strange collection of unique individuals like herself. In an ironic twist of fate, they had chosen to reside in Thrane. It was the only real reason she bothered to stay. Though an ally was a soft spot to be exploited, she found herself able to thrive among her friends. She respected them as brothers in arms and appreciated their lack of questioning toward her given lifestyle.

Among these faces were elves and humans of the most peculiar nature. Each one had stories of their own. As she strode toward the guild hall to sleep off her frustration, she pondered the many differences in the people she'd come to know.

Angelus Nox was a paladin, a soldier committed to the church’s Order of Light, militant arm of Thrane. Though Black was familiar with the band of would-be shepherds, she could not hold the man accountable for his affiliation with them.

He hailed from a faraway land with an accent and charm to match his good looks. He was strong, brave, kind and methodical, unlike the many privileged things that served alongside him. He was every bit the respectable man of honor that should have filled their ranks. Had his fellow soldiers been more like him, she might have spent less time looking over her shoulder for a pair of shackles, as she'd made their leader’s hit list at a very young age. The respect Angel showed her was always reciprocated. She considered the man to be a model example of what a holy man should be, if such a thing existed.

Close at hand was his ravishing companion, a fire mage named Shylindra Deus. She came from a long line of talented sorcerers who carried magic in their blood. It was only natural she would harbor the level of talent she possessed. Though she was beautiful, she was not to be trifled with as her cheerful mood was often matched by unbridled passion. The sultry shape of