The man sat unmoving at the bar, seemingly engrossed in his drink.

The other patrons of the tavern seemed to keep their distance from him, watching warily over their shoulders and speaking in hushed tones, as if they could sense some sort of menace emanating from the dark-clad stranger. He seemed oblivious to their presence, merely sitting silently, staring into the mug before him, yet taking not a single drink.

He was an odd sort, even for the Foreign Quarter of the largest city in the world. A long, tattered brown cloak covered him nearly from head to toe, though the hood was thrown back, revealing head of long, thick dark hair that could have been brown as the cloak or black—it was impossible to tell in the dim lighting. A scar ran from his forehead and down over his left eye, ending at mid cheek, though the eye itself seemed as pure and blue as the other, showing—apparently—no loss of vision. His skin was pale, and at the moment covered in a thin layer of dust, for from the looks of him he had just arrived in the city after a long journey. The clothing he wore beneath his worn cloak seemed nondescript: a simple vest of well-used leather armor over a tunic of gray or dirty white and a pair of oft-mended trews that may have been brown at one time but whose true color was now lost to time.

His weapon, though, is what seemed to draw the most attention…

The long, heavy leather bullwhip hung coiled from his belt, his cloak pushed deliberately aside to show any would-be attackers that he was, in fact, armed. Many would have scoffed at such a weapon, and in fact many in the past had, though they had come to regret it. Few realized that in the hands of a true master, that whip was even more deadly than a blade, for not only could it cut just as deep, but it also had a wide range that outdid even the longest sword or spear. As if aware, somehow, that the other customers of the tavern were watching him, the man lowered his hand, resting it lightly upon the weapon’s handle.

He smiled, an expression lost to those at his back as he continued to stare down into his drink.

The tavern door swung open, drawing attention away from the traveler and to the surprising newcomer. Dragonborn, while not rare at all in the City of No Names, tended to stay amongst their own kind, rather than wander about through the Foreign Quarter. The large, broad-shouldered, red-scaled dragon man strode across the chamber, which had fallen silent as death. His footsteps nearly shook the small establishment, causing more than one patron to grasp their drink in hand, rather than let even a single precious drop be sloshed onto the dirty floor. He stopped just behind the stranger with the dangerous aura.

“Sastre Quicksilver?” he asked in his rumbling, draconic voice.

The man didn’t answer, though he did gesture for the dragonborn to take the stool next to him. Looking at the rickety, unstable seat and considering his own massive weight, the red simply shook his head, sliding the stool away and moving to stand next to the one he had addressed as “Sastre.”

“I trust you had no trouble finding the place?” the dragonborn asked, leaning against the bar, which groaned in protest at the sudden added weight. The tavern-keeper’s face went white, and he prayed silently to any god who might be listening that the bar would hold.

The man finally spoke, his voice as cold as ice. “I’m here, aren’t I?” To those who could hear his words, the stranger’s voice seemed entirely out of place when compared to his appearance. He spoke the words crisply, properly, with an accent and tone befitting a noble, not some travelling whatever-he-was.

“Yes,” the dragonborn replied with a nod, “yes I suppose you did, then.”

“You sure picked a nice place to meet, don’t you think?” the dark-haired man asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You dragonborn sure know how to treat a guest.” He slid his untouched drink aside, turning to look at the red with his icy blue eyes. The dragonborn actually looked way, so intense was that gaze. “Well, out with it.”

“Of course,” the heavily-armored dragon man said, swallowing hard. “The council has need of your services, Lord Quicksilver—”

“Sastre.”

The dragonborn was taken aback for a moment. “Excuse me?”

“You called me ‘Lord Quicksilver’ a moment ago. My name is Sastre, understand?”

“Uhhhhh, yes Lor— Yes Sastre.”

“Very good. Continue.”

“Yes, as I was saying, the council has need of your services. Word has reached us that you are the best in your field—”

“That’s right.”

“—and we would be very interested in attaining your specialized—”

“You want me to check out your little problem in the sewers, is that it?”

Again, the dragonborn seemed at a loss for words. “Well… Well yes, in fact. How did you—?”

“You dragonborn should really pay a little more attention to what goes on in your city,” Sastre responded to the unfinished question. “The people here are terrified; rumors are running wild and the populace is quite perturbed that you dragonborn simply seem to be content just sitting around. If I were you, I’d have taken care of this months ago.”

“Yes, well—”

“One-hundred-thousand.”

Silence descended between the two, broken only by the dragonborn’s sharp intake of breath. Those few tavern-goers who had been following the exchange slowly moved farther away, certain that a brawl was only seconds away.

“Excuse me?” the red asked quietly, disbelievingly.

“I will require payment of one-hundred-thousand gold pieces to render my services.” Sastre shrugged as he went on. “If my fees are too high, I’ll simply be on my way.”

Shaking with rage at such an impossibly high price, the red dragonborn struggled against his own blazing temper. It was true that his masters on the council had instructed him to do whatever was necessary to procure Quicksilver’s help, but honestly, one-hundred-thousand gold pieces to this… this human scum?

Never.

The dragonborn roared with fury, taking a single step back, giving himself room enough to draw the greatsword from his back. “I’ll not tolerate such insolence, understand human? You should be bowing at my feet, thanking me for the privilege to work for my masters! You are a dog, and as such I see no reason to waste our gold on you!”

With a grunt of exertion, the red swung his sword down in an arcing blow that cleaved the stool upon which Sastre had been sitting in two. He stared dumb-founded, realizing too late that his target was nowhere in sight. He didn’t have long to wonder, though, for a sudden rush of wind and a crack like thunder startled him, as did the crushing pressure that now twined itself about his neck.

Sastre pulled harder on his whip, tightening it and nearly crushing the dragonborn’s throat. Again he pulled, taking a step back, forcing his much larger adversary to the ground as he struggled for breath.

“That was uncalled for,” Sastre said, giving his whip another quick tug. “I’ll not treat with lackeys and servants, understand? If your council truly wishes my services, they will come to me themselves, and they will do so in a much more reputable place than this.” With an elegant flick of his wrist, the whip came free and seemed to coil of its own volition back into the man’s hand. He secured it upon his belt, turning his back to the dragonborn, who lay gasping for breath upon the ground.

“I trust you’ll deliver my message to them?” the blue-eyed human asked, staring down at the twitching form of the red.

Without another word, Sastre Quicksilver left the stunned and silent tavern behind him, moving into the late afternoon bustle of the city and deciding that he really did need a drink after all.

Sastre awoke sore, his muscles stiff from a night spent on the common-room floor.

He sat up slowly, stretching as he did so to get some blood flowing back into his cold, protesting limbs. Nearly silent footsteps around the room told of the inn’s staff quietly readying everything for the breakfast rush, while still being courteous to their patrons who—for lack of funds—had been permitted the shelter of the common-room for the night.

And Sastre certainly fit into the “lack of funds” category.

The Hunter sighed, a slight smile on his face as he recalled a conversation he’d had with a fellow Hunter only weeks before coming to the City of No Names. The young woman—little more than a girl, really—was named Solphi, and she was a demon Hunter who had grown up in the village of Weeping Briar, which was now a ruined, supposedly haunted ghost town. It was actually in those “haunted” ruins that Sastre and Solphi had met, by chance, as each had sought shelter from an unseasonably severe storm that was laying waste to the countryside.

“I come here often, actually,” Solphi had said, staring almost vacantly into the roaring fire that had been started in the dilapidated inn’s hearth. “I grew up here,” she went on, casting a sad smile at Sastre, “until the demons came and took everyone away…”

Sastre knew that there was more to her story than that, but as a Hunter he also knew that it wasn’t his place to pry. He simply nodded, and the night went on with the two of them exchanging small talk and stories, as well as comparing their differing methods when it came to Hunting.

“What do you mean you don’t charge a fee?!” the beautiful young woman had asked, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Honestly, what the hell kind of Hunter doesn’t charge for his services?”

Sastre had shrugged and, with a small smile, had replied simply, “A very poor one.”

The Hunter shook his head to clear it of memories, focusing instead on the here and now. As he had done every morning for the past fifteen years or so, Sastre reached into his tunic and pulled out the amulet that he wore around his neck, secured by a leather thong. It was a small thing, in the shape of an arrowhead, and not at all flashy or even valuable looking, but it meant the world to the blue-eyed wanderer.

If the person who had given it to him was to be believed, then this very arrowhead had come from an arrow shot by the legendary St. Alaya, known to most of the world as “Alaya the Lost.” This revered personage—so the stories said—had lost her family and her village to a coven of vampires, and had spent her life searching for them, vowing vengeance upon those responsible. Unlike most who were obsessed with retribution, though, Alaya had retained her humanity, and her honor, choosing to join a group of strangers in a chaotic quest that had, ultimately, saved the entire world of Bolermos. What had happened, in the end, to Alaya was still unknown, for the various legends gave conflicting accounts. It didn’t really matter to Sastre, though, for what was known was that she did succeed in avenging her people, and that—according to most—she was rewarded in the end with that which she desired most in all the world.

“St. Alaya,” Sastre prayed quietly, his voice the barest whisper as he clutched the pendant tightly in his folded hands. “Please, watch over me in this, my quest for vengeance. Let your strength guide my weapon; let your wisdom guide my thoughts; let your protection envelop me.” He paused, for it seemed as if the arrowhead grew warmer… He dismissed this sensation, for obviously his mind was simply playing tricks on him. “I thank you…” Tucking the pendant back down into his tunic, Sastre stood.

I don’t regret this path I’ve chosen, not one bit, he thought as the smell of cooking breakfast wafted out from the inn’s large kitchen, but, damn me, that hundred thousand gold would have been nice…

The truth was, Sastre had never really expected the dragonborn council to give in to his insane request. That was the problem with leadership like theirs: they cared more about their own wealth and comfort than their people’s wellbeing. Had they accepted Sastre’s deal, he would have known that they truly wished their subjects to be safe and happy, and he would have done the job for free, as always. Unfortunately, their reticence showed that wealth was more important to them…

He would still, of course, check out the sewers.

It was something that he had to do; his honor would not allow him to do otherwise. Here, in this city, people who felt abandoned by their rulers lived in fear, and that simply wouldn’t do. The Hunter would do anything in his power to help put them at ease, for it was the least that they deserved, these people who had no one else to turn to.

I shouldn’t be too hasty, though, he thought sarcastically. There’s still a chance that the council will come to their senses… He laughed to himself at the absurdity of such a thought.

A sound of trumpets from without the inn caused the Hunter to instantly focus his attention on the front door, and the plodding footsteps that seemed to be approaching from outside. He looked around, raising his eyebrows in surprise as he saw the other patrons of the inn—as well as the staff—dropping to their knees and bowing their heads in submission. Before he had a chance to question anyone, the doors pushed open inward and in strode three dragonborn.

Damn it all…

The lead dragonborn—or, at least the one that Sastre would have pegged as the leader—was a black, and was armored in a set of plate that was lined in gold and must have cost a small fortune. At his hips were a pair of dual greatswords, and it took no stretch of the imagination to picture this enormous, mountain-like warrior wading into combat with those two deadly blades wreaking havoc about him. His eyes seemed to glow yellow from out his dark face, and he seemed to be staring directly at Sastre, contempt upon his draconic features.

It wasn’t this black that startled Sastre the most, though. Rather, it was the pair of blue dragonborn who accompanied the “leader.” The blues stood at either shoulder of the yellow-eyed black, each standing about four inches or so shorter than him, though they exuded a power that the black did not. Sastre knew enough about dragonborn to realize that they were paladins, for only members of the dragonborn race that were blue could attain this rank. If a pair of paladins had been sent to accompany this high-ranking black, it certainly didn’t bode well for the Hunter.

“Gentlemen,” Sastre said, inclining his head slightly, his hand never straying far from his whip, which hung as usual at his side. He silently prayed that the nervous shaking in his legs wasn’t quite as noticeable as it felt… “I’d offer you something,” he went on, gesturing toward the prone and trembling staff of the inn, “but it seems that the help is otherwise occupied.”

The black dragonborn ignored Sastre’s attempt at humor as he strode forward, stopping mere inches away from the human’s face and glaring down at him with those disconcerting, yellow eyes. Sastre simply glared right back, refusing to back down from this confrontation. In his line of work, showing any kind of weakness or fear would get you killed, and he reminded himself that he’d faced much worse than an angry dragonborn.

Even if it was an angry, big, dragonborn.

“You are Sastre Quicksilver.” It wasn’t a question.

The Hunter answered with no hesitation, “Yes.”

The dragonborn nodded. “Excellent. I am Shakar, of the Council.” He paused after saying this, as if expecting Sastre to fall prostrate before him, or at least show some sign of deference. Of course he received none, which probably didn’t help his already poor frame of mind. “You are to come with me, now.” Shakar lifted one hand, gesturing for the heavily armored paladins to step forward and take Sastre into custody. With nods of acquiescence, the blues stepped forward, each reaching for one of the Hunter’s arms.

“Lay a hand on me,” Sastre hissed, his icy eyes flashing with unconcealed scorn, “and I swear to you it will be the last mistake you ever make.” At the vehement tone of his voice, the two paladins faltered for a precious moment, allowing Sastre to make his move.

Leaping back several feet, the Hunter drew his deadly weapon in a motion so fluid and so fast that it seemed to defy logic. Pulling his arm back and whirling the whip in a full circle around him, Sastre then stepped forward, lashing out and letting the end catch the nearest of the two paladins squarely across the eyes. The dragonborn let out a roar of pain and shock, clutching at his face as dark blood began to seep through his fingers.

There’s no going back now! Sastre realized as he wasted no time in selecting his next target. Slashing up and to the left with his whip to keep the other dragonborn at a distance, the dark-haired warrior pulled another strange and exotic weapon from his belt: a cross-shaped blade of some sort that he readily pulled back in preparation for a throw. He let fly with the weapon, dashing back yet again and leaping atop a nearby table to avoid being struck by the injured paladin, who was flailing about wildly with his massive sword. The cross-weapon flew straight ahead, true to Sastre’s aim, striking the black dragonborn with enough force that he staggered back slightly, grunting in disbelief more than pain, for the blade hadn’t come even close to piercing his thick armor.

“Enough of this! Kill him!” Shakar shrieked, letting his temper override his better judgment, for he had been ordered to bring Hunter Quicksilver in alive. He drew both of his greatswords and, with an ancient draconic battle cry, he charged across the common-room toward Sastre.

From atop his table, the Hunter simply smiled grimly as he watched his cross-boomerang make a sharp turn, coming back around toward Shakar yet again. He wasn’t the only one to see this, though, and he cursed as the uninjured paladin cried out and leapt between the rapidly oncoming blade and its high-ranking target. The weapon struck the paladin, luck guiding it between two of the interlocking armor plates that the dragonborn wore for protection. Blood spurted out, and a shout of pain echoed throughout the establishment.

Taking his attention off of the battle for a brief second, Sastre saw that the inn’s staff and other patrons were still quivering in abject terror on the floor.

He growled in anger. What sort of rulers are these dragonborn, that their people fear them so! The Hunter didn’t have time to ponder this, though, as he suddenly realized that—with his cross-boomerang attack fouled—Shakar was still rushing him, and closing in quite fast. Hesitating only a moment, Sastre reached into his cloak and pulled out a spherical vial of glass, filled with some sort of chemical powder. Damn it all, these are so expensive, he sighed inwardly, readying the strange weapon.

“Human, you shall die for your insolence!” Shakar screamed, preparing both swords for a scissor-like strike that would easily cut Sastre in two. Before he could attack, though, the Hunter tossed the glass sphere at the ground, where it promptly exploded with a concussion that shook the ground and a blinding flash of radiant light. Shakar was blown back several feet, where he crashed through a table and was knocked senseless, at least for the moment.

Immediately Sastre leapt down from his table, landing in a crouch and sweeping all around him with a single revolution of his long whip. The two injured paladins—who were also quite blind now, thanks to the flash bomb Sastre had thrown—fell to the ground instantly when the weapon bit into the flesh between the armored plates of their legs. This left a convenient exit for the human, who took complete advantage of his enemies’ current plight. As he ran past the paladins, Sastre stopped, bending down to yank his cross-boomerang from the shoulder of the second blue dragonborn. Flicking the blood from it, Sastre immediately secured it to his belt.

“Can’t be leaving without this now, can I?” he asked no one in particular. As he neared the door, a heavy growling sound stopped him in place, and he gritted his teeth as he spun around, one hand resting on his protesting stomach. His icy-blue eyes were drawn to the kitchen, where the smell of breakfast still emanated. He turned his head and looked toward the door at his back, at the assured freedom that was so close.

But he was so hungry.

In the end, it was Shakar who made the decision for him.

“On your feet, now!” he screamed, rising to his own rather unsteadily and rubbing at his stinging eyes the entire time. “Don’t let him escape! Kill him, for our honor!” At the mention of “honor,” the blue paladins seemed to forget their pain, leaping to their feet with a nimbleness that startled the Hunter.

He sighed. “Escape it is, then,” he muttered to himself as he dashed through the door and into the street, the paladins hot on his heels. He suddenly found himself confronted with yet another pair of dragonborn—one green and the other quite a stunning shade of ocher—each armed with a short sword and a herald’s trumpet. He slid to a stop before them, ducking a blow from the green as he quickly spun, charging down the street in the opposite direction. “Demon-filled sewers are really starting to sound pretty good right now!” he growled as he ran through the early morning light, trying his hardest to ignore the furious sounds of pursuit behind him.

And trying even harder to ignore the boisterous complaints of his very empty stomach…

Mizzely laid lazily on the stone rooftop of one of the City’s many inns. These establishments intrigued her; the people of the city congregated there often, and the patrons were changing all the time, giving her a steady stream of different shapes, sizes, races, and smells to sample and observe. Generally speaking there wasn’t a lot going on, but that was okay; it was early in the day and the sun’s rays warmed her blue-gray fur nicely. She closed her eyes against the brightness, and considered taking a short nap. She was just laying her head down on her paws when her back tingled with the sensation that animals – and people – give off when they are very nervous or scared.

She saw three very large, reptilian beings that she knew to be Dragonborn from her new “student” Craed. Knowing what he had told her and just from watching the foreign quarter for a while, she knew that it was not often that these creatures ventured from the main part of the city to give the local flair a visit. The people below scattered like cockroaches hiding from the light as the heavily clad guard marched past them and into the inn she was crouched upon. Two of them stayed outside, awaiting their return. Well, this was certainly better than a nap.

Mizzely padded across the rooftop and looked down into the alley next to the building, calculating. She jumped down to the ground, the speed of the impact taking away her breath just slightly. Slowly she stood up, changing into her humanoid form, and peered through the window to see what had prompted a visit from the Dragon people.

The scene inside revealed all but one of the patrons and staff with their heads to the ground in quiet submission to the tall newcomers. One stood defiant, wearing a cloak and a look of contemplation. His legs quivered very slightly, revealing that he was not completely in control of the situation he found himself in. Suddenly, her breast was filled with sensation. She knew instantly that she had to help him; her spirits flooded her with the sense that her aiding him was in line with her destiny. The last time she had felt such a strong urge to help another was when she had saved the drowning lynx kitten and found her true form. She knew that this feeling was not to be taken lightly, and that it had never steered her wrong. Her spirits were guiding her to him, and that was cause enough for her to get involved. She was just plotting her next move when the commotion in the inn spurred her to the roofs again, as the cloaked one vacated the scene.

Mizzely turned into her favored form, and leapt across the rooftops, racing to place her position in front of the human. She did not know why, but the urge to help this person was extremely strong, and she would help him if she could. As she ran, her shoulder feathers flew backwards in the breeze, giving them a form, as if she were sprouting wings. She finally over took him at a location that suited her next move. She just hoped he would listen.

The druid jumped down, changing into her humanoid form mid air. She landed perfectly in front of him, the human almost running into her as he came to a dead stop. She simply stated, “Can you ride bareback?” and ran off down one of the alleys. She did not turn to see if he understood or if he followed, but footsteps that did not belong to her resounded off of the close walls, and she knew without a doubt that he had.

She led him down a series of alleys, zigzagging between stored carts, empty barrels, and a dwarf who was still sleeping off the previous evenings’ festivities. She looked back, the human still behind her; she could not read his expression, but she could see that he was determined to escape those which still pursued them. The trek through the narrow alleys was obviously giving them a lead, however, as the larger dragonborn were now noticeably farther behind.

Mizzely turned sharply into a building, and the human followed her. The smell of hay, oats, and manure crept into her nostrils as she ran to the back of the stable. As she did, she quickly unlocked all of the occupied stalls, disappearing into the last one to bring out a beautiful black mare. The horse was simply adorned with a rope bridle, and Mizzely handed him the makeshift reins. She was slightly out of breath as she said to him, “We don’t have much time. Get on, and when I give the signal, run as hard and as fast for the river outside the gates as you can. I will give you further directions once you are to the forest clearing downstream from the bridge. Etoh will know the way.”

The human heeded her, and swung himself up onto the bare back of the horse. Mizzely took the mare’s head in her hands and kissed her nose as she looked into her eyes, simply saying “Forgive me.” Before their eyes, she turned into a large mountain lion. She looked at the human, and appeared as if she were going to say something; instead gave a terrifying, guttural roar.

The stable was suddenly alive. A dozen horses screamed, alarmed at the predatory cat that had suddenly appeared. The cat hissed and lashed out at them, making like it was going to attack them. The beasts spilled out into the streets, catching the dragonborn that pursued them offguard. The green one tumbled to the ground as a gelding crashed into him. The horses knocked into stalls and carts, throwing goods all over the street. Vendors were shouting to the stablemaster to get the horses under control, while the stablemaster was trying to figure out what had spooked them in the first place, disbelieving the stable boy who kept making claim to a lion being the culprit. The large black, lead dragon creature cursed to himself as he tried to make his way past the commotion, but the street before him was filled with yelling people, spooked livestock, vegetables, and the wreckage from at least two stands. He had lost the trail of the one sought.

--

Only one horse had run from the scene with a purpose, and it ran straight south to the gates with its human rider hanging on tight to its neck. He didn’t even need to steer, it seemed; the horse galloped straight and true for the river, due south of the bridge. He risked looking behind him to see if anyone was on his tail, but he was glad to see that though there was a lot of noise coming from the city, it seemed that he had, for now, lost them. As he turned back, the horse slowed to a walk before entering the river. The clear water splashed up onto his trousers, and he sucked in his breath a little at the cold it sent down his leg. Luckily, the place the horse had chosen to cross at was neither wide nor deep, and they were over very quickly and with no further incident. The mare trotted into a deep section of the woods, and before much longer, she stopped at a point where the trees thinned and the sparse ground became covered in lush grass.

The sun peered into the little clearing here, making the entire place sparkle in golden light. His mount started to munch at the grass below them, clearly enjoying the difference in food. The Hunter sat there a little longer before realizing that the horse was not intending to get moving again. Finally, he jumped down to the ground and looked at his surroundings, listening always for signs that he had been followed after all.

He stood there, wondering what his next move would be, feeling again the hunger pains that he could not ignore much longer, when he heard a bird singing. He looked up just in time to see a sparrow swoop down, and land onto his shoulder. It opened its beak, and said in a now almost familiar voice, “Follow the moss on the tree trucks until you reach the cave.” The human opened his mouth as if to question this information, but the bird stopped, blinked a few times, and then flew off, apparently having nothing left to say.

He stood there, not really knowing if what he thought had just happened…had. He thought a moment and realized that he had experienced far stranger things before. The only thing then, was to determine the way to go. Spinning slowly in a circle around him, the Hunter scrutinized the trees and the moss that seemed to grow on all of them. They all looked practically the same! He was making his second pass when something suddenly stuck out to him.
He walked up to the trees to the north of him, and touched his hand to the growing plant. For some reason, the moss on these trees was much more lush and full then the ones behind him. As he was debating if this was the direction the strange shifter had referred to, the sun shifted just enough to reveal the secret. The trees that he stood before now shimmered, as the moss appeared to glow from the sun’s rays. The human looked again around him, seeing if all the moss did this and if he was looking in the wrong place still, but only the trees here facing the north glimmered when the sun struck it just so.

He entered the woods, following the glittering trees, and saw that they led him deeper and deeper in. The sun’s rays were not as prevalent here, and he almost feared he had lost the path set before him when he saw a mountainous outcropping a dozen yards ahead of him. He was certain that this was where he was to go, and upon inspection found the opening for a small cave. Without hesitation, the Hunter entered, having to duck to not hit his head on the grey rocks.

The small entrance opened up further in to reveal a decently sized room where maybe 3 or 4 men could sleep comfortably on the floor. The roof was still a bit low for his stature, but he could stand without inhibition nearer to the center. It was evident that someone lived here; there were woven baskets stacked to the side, a bed made of dried grasses and the hide of a deer, and a patch of light revealed a hole made to let the smoke escape if one were to make a fire in the charred portion of the floor. Dried herbs rested in notches in the stone and some hung from the ceiling. His stomach growled loudly, echoing off of the walls, making sure he had not forgotten about it. A giggle from behind him made him reach for the grip of his whip, and he spu around to see who had entered.

A huge lynx stood before him, a mask of definitely blue markings surrounding its eyes and fading on the sides of its head. Its nose was almost orange, and its eyes golden yellow and large. On its shoulders, covering the blue gray fur that coated its body, were long, more or less blue feathers that hung nearly to its elbows. Before he had had much more time to take in its details, the lynx stood up, and became the shifter that had facilitated his escape in the City. Even in this form, the blue mask he had seen on the lynx never left, becoming now a tattoo or birthmark. She did not seem at all surprised to see him, as if there was no other conceivable place for him to have ended up. From a game pouch on her hip, she withdrew the limp body of a snowshoe hare. “I thought you might be hungry.”

She walked past him and crouched onto the floor. The sound of flint against steel reverberated off the cramped quarters before a spark was seen alight onto the dried kindling she produced from her stores. The shifter fed the fire for a few moments before she finally brought her attention back to him. “Please, sit with me,” she beckoned.

The hunter, curious about this person who had helped him, and at the added request of his still grumbling belly, sat across from her where she sat at the fire. She looked back at him, as she peeled the skin from the rabbit and prepared it for cooking on the new flame. He got the feeling that she was looking into him, trying to discover something about him just as he was trying to do with her. They both sat, just looking across the glow for a while, before the Hunter finally found his voice.

“Thank you,” he started, not quite knowing where else to begin. “Your tactics certainly proved useful in my escape. Might I know your name, and why you came to aid me?”

“Mizzely,” she stated, “though the second part of your question is not so easily answered. Are you a spiritual man?” She grinned before continuing, her eyes lighting up, not awaiting a response as much as setting him up for the second portion of her response. “You might say that I was destined to help you, stranger. The spirits who guide me through this life begged me to assist you, and their call is not one that I will ignore. Beyond that, I am just as confused as you are. May I know the name of the one the spirits are so interested in?”

The smell of cooking meat filled the cavern. The human thought a moment over this new information. He may not be exactly the religious sort, but he knew about purposes and callings. He did not feel that this druid had any reason to deceive him, and he was willing to part with such a basic exchange, as long as it ended with part of the rabbit residing in his stomach. “Sastre Quicksilver,” he offered finally.

“And what is it that you do, Sastre, that brings you to this City with No Name?” He noted that she did not attempt to use his last name or any fancy titles. It was also not clear whether she was intentionally calling the City that or if she really believed that to be its title. “You are most proficient with the weapons you carry; the whip particularly.”

The meat was still cooking, but getting closer to the point of done. Hell, at this point he would have eaten it raw if she had offered. He milled over his answer in his head before giving it to her, wondering what all he should reveal, though it did not seem necessary to hide the truth. “I’m a Hunter,” he started, “You say you talk to spirits? You might say that I do too. Only my sort usually don’t have a lot to say; they rely on bloodshed to get their messages across. I hunt demons.” He looked again at the hare in the fire, and his stomach alluded that it would very much like to have it.

Mizzely giggled. She never seemed to full on laugh, just short spurts of amusement. Her eyes always sparkled with the joke however, and it was evident that it would take a lot to make the twinkle disappear. She removed the body of the animal from the fire and handed it to him on a woven basket lid. “I already had mine on the way,” she grinned, her eyes laughing again in their way.

Sastre eagerly took the food that she offered and ate it hungrily. The hare was still very hot, and he burned his fingers as he delved into its moist recesses and devoured it. Within minutes, he was left with a tiny skeleton, carefully picked over. His stomach subsided for now.

The druid grinned and then it looked as if she were going to ask him something further. She put out the flames that had roasted his meal, and instead said, “You are welcome to stay here, Hunter of Demons, for as long as you have need. The dragon people have lost interest for now in looking for you; I would think it wise, still, to perhaps bed somewhere you will not get visitors before you’ve had your breakfast.” She giggled at her joke, then stood up.” I’m going to go to the City to return a spooked mare to her stable boy before she is missed much longer.” She did not wait for his reply, merely sidestepping him and leaping out the door, morphing into the lynx form she had entered as earlier, leaving him alone in the cave.