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[Trillin]

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The Pits Of Jhelom

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The Bloodroot

Trillins empty stomach led him into the heart of the city. He followed his nose, finding himself amid the bustling crowd of the marketplace. He wove through the clusters of people eyeing the shopkeepers wares, keeping his eyes forward but using his peripherals to search for those who may have recognized him.

So far, so good. He thought. Though Trillin was most certainly not one to shy away from a fight, he did, at the moment, have other things on his mind. Sustenance. He cut through the alley to his right and followed the smell of roasting chickens to a tavern. Trillin stopped just short of entering and stepped to the left. Pinned to the stone by a thick iron stake was a large piece of parchment bearing his likeness. The corners of Trillins mouth upturned in a twisted grin. The artist had failed in capturing the perfect line of his nose. Trillin snorted and pushed his way into the tavern.

Trillin passed a group of whispering patrons who had noted his entrance. He hoped that he could get some food down before they became a problem, but Trillin was ever the pessimist when it came to the intelligence of others. He seated himself at the bar, and ordered himself a side of whatever meat they had roasting at the moment and a flagon of ale. His stomach groaned at the very thought of what was to come. The barkeep shoved the plate and mug in front of him and left. Trillins mouth watered and he dug in.

His pleasure in solid food was cut short, though, as he felt a hand close over his shoulder. The owner of said hand attempted to turn him around, but Trillin resisted. He could hear the man grunt with exertion. He set his tankard down and turned slowly to face the man, keeping his hood up and over his face. So much for a good meal before trouble found him.

The man standing before him stood taller than Trillin while seated. He must have weighed triple that of Trillin, but his bulk was mainly comprised of ale as evidenced by the subtle jiggle as he reached for the hood.

“Show your face!” His gruff voice sounded. He grabbed at the fabric, wrenching it backward and over Trillins head.

Trillin cocked a fist and drove it into the mans windpipe. As the heavy man hit the floor his friends, three of them if Trillin had counted correctly, launched themselves from the table they once occupied and threw themselves at him. Trillin flattened out a palm and shoved it into the next assailants nose, propelling the broken splinters up into the unfortunate man’s brain. He dropped as well, blood and froth spewing from his mouth and nose. Bewildered, his friends simply stared at the puddle forming in a gruesome halo around their companion’s head.

Another stepped over the crumpled form lying prone on the floor. He had brought the knife he had been using to cut his meat. He lunged, Trillin anticipated the attack and ducked. He took hold of the man’s wrist, squeezing until the knife clattered to the floor behind him. The sound sent Trillin’s face into another twisted smile. His grip tightened and Trillin rammed his free hand upward at the elbow, shattering the brutes arm. Blood flecked Trillin’s white skin as bone punctured skin. Trillin’s smile stayed at the man’s screams filled his ears. A glorious soundtrack to the mayhem.

The few patrons that had gathered in the tavern fled, leaving their uneaten meals behind them. The last man turned and fled as well, calling for the guard. Trillin couldn’t have the guard following him back to the hideout in the woods, and quickly made to solve the problem. He grabbed the forgotten knife from the floor and dashed for the door. He jumped the tables, running through plates of abandoned food. He propelled himself at the fleeing man, driving the knife downward, planting it squarely between his shoulder blades as he followed the man to the ground.

Trillin stood, brushing himself off and extracting the knife from the dead man’s back. He strode toward the bar, grabbing a towel and wiping down the blade before setting it next to the plate. He could hear the harried voices of the patron’s who had already fled and knew that the guard would soon be upon him. Trillin chugged down the ale. He tossed a coin to the barkeep and snatched up the hunk of meat from his plate before replacing his hood and heading for the back door.
In the alley, Trillin felt an overwhelming need to return to the hideout overtake him. A need so all encompassing that his blood almost boiled with it. Trillin took off racing through the streets and toward the forest. He burst through the door to his room, first seeing the woman who had saved him, but immediately taking note of the hooded figure beside her. He stepped toward the newcomer, furious that this woman had brought a stranger to see him.

“Who are you?” Trillin demanded.

The figure lifted the hood, dropping it around his shoulders and revealing a visage quite similar to that of Trillin himself. Pale skin and hair, blood red eyes and sharp pointed features stared back at him.

“I am the Bloodroot.”