Fate

Nary a moment of peace on these streets of Galewind. Surely not for the last time this night, the cry of the guardsmen went out, echoing against the hard sides of the buildings and into the deepening twilight, chasing after the very cause of the disturbance.

'Thief!'

But the clattering of the pursuing footsteps was fading from the assailant's ears, and a quick turn down the next alley and there would be no justice this night, only dissappointment for those flat-footed fools and a very full coffer indeed for this thief.

Unfortunately, there was another in the street this night who had other ideas, and it was his metal-clad fist that shot out from the side of the street and connected with the thief's neck. Sputtering and outraged, the thief hastily made his second mistake of the night as he swung wildly at this would-be hero, but the blow was caught outright, strong fingers clenching around his fist. Something was muttered, not a statement, or a threat, but an incantation. Another cry pierced the night, a scream of agony as the thief's hand was seared and burned under the grasp of his attacker, bright, red flames emanating from the armored hand. The hand released it grasp and thrusted forward, knocking the thief to the ground. He lay there on the street, clutching his blackened and injured hand, as Aleksander Montag looked on in disgust.

Aleksander straightened his gauntlet and kicked a piece of gravel at his subdued foe, and soon the guard arrived. The young pilgrim was thanked profusely by the members of the guard as the thief was taken into their custody, and in response he tossed the stolen bag of wealth at one of them and took his leave. Other eyes had been watching the scene, eyes filled with hate. Those same eyes glared at Aleksander later that evening across a smoke-filled room, the gaze interrupted occasionally by passing patrons and bar maidens dispersing drink.

Hunched over at a long table, Aleksander was yet again perusing an ancient parchment, yellowed and smudged from his fingerprints and ages of existence. The inking on the paper had long faded, but the schematic and the ancient text was still present. Unnoticed, one of the patrons had made his way to the table opposite Aleksander, and placed his hand onto the parchment, tracing his finger over the drawing on its surface.

Noticing the semblance of a wolf on this man's ring, Aleksander looked up to find himself facing the dark features of a young man, perhaps near his own age, but with eyes that held a hate that belied his youth, all under the shadow of a great black hat. This was Halknid Redcrest III, and he smirked upon meeting Aleksander's gaze. He drew himself up as he spoke, crossing his arms. 'You are the one who lent a hand in catching that old thief earlier this evening, if I'm not mistaken.' Sizing up this new development, Aleksander nodded his head warily and muttered dissaprovingly, 'Yes.'

Halknid III drew a deep breath and let out a sigh that led into his pitch. 'You know what this is?' he said, a finger pointing down at the parchment in between them.

Aleksander kept his eyes on the stranger as he replied simply, 'Pillar of Wrath.'

'Yes. Well, it just so happens I have a good idea of where you might be able to get your hands on this thing.' Aleksander noticeably perked up at this notion, his eagerness and interest betraying his wariness. Halknid Redcrest noticed this, and continued.

'I would like to make you an offer. The man who possesses this weapon is known to me. It just so happens that this man is responsible for the death of my father, if not most of my family of late. It is my intention to get my hands on this man and inflict a slow and horrible death upon him. Join me, aid me on my quest for vengeance' -at this he held out his hand- 'and you can claim the weapon as your own.'

Mile-long thoughts raced through Aleksander's mind. He had journeyed so far from his home in the desert, against the wishes of some of those closest to him. In the pursuit of knowledge he had dared ventured into the lands of the Elves in the East, all for the sake of this obsession for an ancient weapon that began with the parchment that lay before him. It seemed almost surreal that his path would be laid out so clearly before him.

But the red and black, the fist and the arrows, Aleksander had been in the Human lands long enough to know what they meant. It made him wary yet less fearful at the proposition. The Churches were dangerous no matter what side you were on, but each treated their own well, and they were honorable. But there were other facts that unsettled him.

The actions of the mortal Tyrant had greatly pained Aleksander's own patron and had even reached him personally in the current day, as many of Aleksander's friends had been lost to that horrible sand and the depredation in the desert wastes. He was quite certain that the myths regarding the Tyrant's ascension were true. The late Aran Gray had more than confirmed that, had actually shown him the blade that had cut down his master ages ago, its edge still searing from the heat of the Fire. It was by Gray's advice that he had made his way here, to the City on the Pass. Could the old man have known?

Aleksander looked up into the face of his new friend, deep into his eyes. It was disturbing; the hatred that emanated from them was so great, so all-consuming. He must have been sincere. Some of Aleksander's anxiety seemed to disappear. This was no official Church business he was being offered; it was a stake in a personal vendetta. After what seemed like minutes had passed, Aleksander firmly grasped the stranger's hand. 'Care to tell me your name, then, stranger?'