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Joanne Laroche
05 Nov 2008



Andrew stepped over the corpulent body.

The tavern had been mostly empty when he’d ducked inside – a few bar maids, a grizzled old cook – little to look at, and few witnesses.

“Help! Murder!” a girl screamed, bolting for the doorway. She didn’t quite make it to the threshold before an energy bolt caught her square in the back. What was once a red-cheeked, outgoing young woman became a heap of crumpled skirt strewn over wine-soaked floorboards.

Andrew sighed, turning back towards the bar, sighting on a lonely stool in the corner. He continued walking at an even pace, pondering. The cook had come at him first, and with a rolling pin at that. So futile…so predictable.

No doubt the man hadn’t even known why he’d attacked Andrew, why the rage had overcome his reason and left him bereft of both mercy and kindness. The influence of the Shadowlords could leave any weak man daft, and apparently his master had already corrupted many of the townsfolk here.

He sat down, noticing that the other two serving girls had been edging towards the door, much more carefully than their ill-fated friend. Fear was etched across their features, as though any sudden movement, any stumble, any sound could seal their deaths.

Andrew casually pulled out a deck of cards and splayed them out across the counter.

“I’d like a drink, if you don’t mind.”