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Book 1
The Prophecy


Chapter 1
Bazza’ren

The night watchman took his post just in time to observe the sunset. As was usual now, the sun was going down early, for this time of year always brought the glowing orb in the sky down quickly, and with its departure a chill wind whistled through the eaves of the trees. As the wind died and the sun passed behind the lines of the horizon the figure of a man walked from the shadows of the hills surrounding the walled city. The cloaked figure approached the wall with ease, despite the slightly rough terrain all around. As he neared, the watchman could see the traveler walked with his hands on the hilts of his two blades, both a bit longer than the average guard’s short sword; he exuded a skill far beyond his years. He seemed to walk with a purpose.
“Halt wanderer, who are ye and what is yer business?” The watchman queried, the customary question for those who wished to enter the majestic trading city of Bazza’ren. The cloaked man pulled his cowl back, revealing the face of one early into manhood; perhaps not even that aged. His hair was hard to pick out in the receding light, because of its dark shade, but his emerald eyes veritably glowed in even so low a light with a will that could pierce even the prized diamond of a dragon’s horde.
“I have business within the city that is. . . Personal. I have no quarrel with you or this city, but my agenda requires me to be within this place.” The man’s voice reverberated with a strength that equaled the light in his eyes. His business must have been quite important for him to travel to the trading city.
The watchman, who himself wished no ill will towards the stranger, nodded toward him. “I be understandin’. I am sorry fer keepin’; you,” the watchman replied, motioning for the gates to be opened. As the green eyed stranger passed, the watchman whispered, “Good luck on whatever quest ye be on.”
The man nodded and passed him, the gates shutting silently in his wake. As he walked away the watchman chuckled to himself. “Interestin’ way to start off an evening. . .”

*****


The cloaked traveler wanders the city’s streets until he comes upon what appears to be a rather seedy tavern with dirtied windows and a door that was recently obliterated by what appears to be a bar fight. The man sighs, but he can barely keep his hand from shaking. He steels his gaze after a moment, then walks into the tavern. The room is hazy from pipe smoke, and the shadows flicker from the small blaze in the fireplace. The room, for the most part, is empty, except for a few patrons in the back and corners. He glances around the room, making sure to take notice of the rogues and shadowy characters, but his gaze focuses mainly on the tavern keeper. He approaches the dirty bar and takes a seat on an old, creaky stool.
The barkeep glances at him under a pair of bushy, graying eyebrows, with the eyes of a man who has seen many things in his years. The barkeep grunts to the stranger, “What is it you want?”
“Wine, if you have any,” he answers the tavern keeper. The barkeep nodded and disappeared into the back room for a few moments. As the man waited he made sure to keep his weapons close at hand. Soon the barkeep returned, holding a bottle of old wine. Before pouring any into a glass he held a hand out in a gesture for payment. The stranger hesitates for a moment, then places a gold piece into the man’s hand.
The tavern keeper looked at it with a small bit of disbelief; gold was a rare form of payment, almost as much so as jewels, and most travelers carried bronze or silver to pay for the fare in most cities. The tavern keeper looks at the man with new interest and whispers, “I’m guessin’ this isn’t just for the wine, is it?”
The stranger flashes him a cunning smile. “I need information. Nothing much, just a small question is all.”
“What is it ye want to ask?” The man inquired as he grabbed a strip of dirty cloth to wash the glasses.
“Info on a certain prophet known to live in Bazza’ren, and who knows quite a bit about. . . the Bastion,” he replied, the last part in an even quieter whisper. The Bastion had a way of sniffing out those who asked around about them.
“You must be talkin’ ‘bout old Ruttum, the ‘Prophet who Knows All but Tells Little,’ he replied, a bit of sarcasm evident in his tone. “Aye he can be found on the corner of the Wyrm’s Fang Inn.”
“I thank you for your help,” he said, and rises to his feet, slipping three gold pieces onto the bar. The man ignores the glances from the other patrons at the sight of the gold. “I trust this talk shall remain secret?” His tone implied the underlying threat in the statement. The barkeep nods, almost tiredly, obviously having had similar such dealings often in the past.
With that the cloaked man walked out of the tavern and into the maze of streets that made up the trading city. Those new to the city can’t help but being overwhelmed by its size and by the citizens themselves, and the stranger was no exception. The people of Bazza’ren were an odd mix of hardy men and women, used to the perils of traveling with caravans, and rich merchants who rely on the shippers who they employed. The city itself was made up almost fully of shops, merchant carts, and inns for the travelers passing through the town. There were a few manors for the rich and powerful, but for the most part it was all businesses, everywhere one looked.
Despite the confusion of the streets the man eventually came upon the street he was looking for, and could even from the opposite end of the street, spy an elderly looking man on the corner.
The stranger approached the man as quick as he could navigate himself through the throng of people and stood in front of him, gazing at the prophet. After a moment he asks, “…Are you the prophet, Ruttum?”
The man glances up, a look of curiosity plain on his features. He looked more like a beggar than a prophet, from the look of his clothes, but even the stranger could see the power and control in the man’s dark blue eyes. Even without looking into them though, one could feel the man’s aura of wisdom.
The wise man looks the cloaked stranger up and down, and slowly a smile spread on his face. “Ah… so fate as shown its hand so early… I had not expected you for another few years. Ah well, things have a way of happening like that, don’t they Daven? Or would you prefer the last name you have taken on in honor of the first bloodline?”