[A back alley in a shady part of Montfort]

"That's far enough, chum."

Henckle was up in an instant, moving through the darkened room to the shuttered window that overlooked the alleyway. He recognized the speaker's voice and had a fair idea of what he would see below. He released the catch on the shutter and swung it out a crack.just enough so that he could peak inconspicuously into the street below. He was not disappointed.

A man stood in the center of the alley. Three gangers stood in front of him, denying him passage, and four moved in behind to cut off his retreat.

"Anyone wants to come through here gots t' pay a toll."

The scene had played itself out often since the Tollkeepers had moved into this part of town. The gangers had established its headquarters half a block from the building that Henckle called home, tossing the incumbent squatters into the street and proclaiming themselves rulers of their new territory. It was a small gang, with only eight members, but what it lacked in numbers it more than made up for in sheer brutality. Too often Henckle had witnessed a toll being taken out of the "client's" hide. Six of the seven Tollkeepers now standing in the alley carried short swords they were well versed in using. Linus, the leader of the Tollkeepers, was slightly larger than the others. A large broadsword was sheathed at his waist.

"What's the going rate?"

Henckle studied the gang's victim. There was something about this man that was different from the others the gang molested, but he couldn't quite place it. Physically, the mark was the very definition of average. Henckle judged him to be around 5'10" weighing about 175lbs. He wasn't slender, but he wasn't overly muscled, either. His clothes were unimpressive and nondescript, loose-fitting for ease of movement and close to threadbare in some places. His hair was short, a dusty blond in color and amply tousled, as if the man made a habit of running his fingers through it. Henckle couldn't make out the color of his eyes from this distance, but his face was very unassuming. Henckle knew he would be hard-pressed to give an accurate description of the man to anyone.

"Oh, at least that much.."

Linus pointed to the bulging pouch tied to the man's belt. Henckle hadn't seen the pouch from his higher angle and as the man turned to glance down at it, the hidden observer noticed something else he had missed in his first glance. The man was armed. A short sword graced his left hip, it's well-worn leather scabbard affixed to the belt with the tip tied to the leg near the left knee. The handle of the sword was wrapped in some kind of cloth that obscured the hilt. The whole of the weapon sat higher on the man 's side than was customary and in a flash of insight, Henckle realized that such a placement allowed the blade to be drawn by either hand.

"You mean this?"

"To start with. Let's have it."

The man nodded agreeably and moved his hand towards his belt. He methodically untied the pouch and hefted it in his hand.

"Oh,yes," he said, "this will do nicely."

It struck Henckle in that moment what was so different about this victim. The man wasn't scared. In fact, if Henckle had to describe the man's emotional state at that time, he would have said 'casual indifference'.

The man was bored!

Henckle swallowed. The Tollkeepers were not to be trifled with. They were brutal, merciless thugs. Henckle could see in his mind what would happen next and it wouldn't be pretty. The fellow was going to get himself killed! Unless..

"Here," the man said and casually tossed the bag to Linus in a high arc. The Tollkeepers watched the bag. Henckle watched the man.

The mark reached a casual hand into his shirt and casually withdrew two throwing knives. Two casual flicks of the wrist sent the slender blades flying unerringly into the throats of the two gangers flanking Linus. Linus caught the bag and greedily tore open the purse strings. At the sight of the contents, his eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Hey, what is this.?" he began. It was at that point that he noticed his comrades clutching their throats and falling to the ground.

"That would be called a distraction."

"Aaarrghh! KILL HIM!"

The four other Tollkeepers sprang into action. Those to the left and right of the bunch circled out wide to come in from the sides. One of the other two charged the man.

The mark turned to face the rush. He made no move to draw his own weapon, took no defensive stance. He just stood there waiting for his death. His attacker lunged..

It was a simple shifting of his weight to the left foot, dropping his right foot back and behind. The thrust missed, the short sword passing not a hairsbreadth from the mark's chest. The man dropped his right arm over the attack, locking the ganger's arm in place and drove the heel of his left hand into the man's elbow. There was a loud crack as the joint snapped and the ganger's sword seemed to fall into the mark's left hand as the assailant dropped to the ground, clutching at his wounded arm to his chest.

The Tollkeeper in front of the mark growled and moved in, more cautiously than the previous man. He took a vicious swing..

The mark's borrowed blade lifted sharply, sending the attacker's sword up and out of the way. At the same time, he took a measured step inside the ganger's guard and drove his right elbow into the man's gut. The ganger doubled over as his breath left him and his sword flew from his fingers. The mark plucked the blade from the air with his right hand and casually extended both arms out to the side.

The two Tollkeepers had tried a flanking maneuver and were thrusting at the man from both sides simultaneously. The borrowed weapons each caught blade and directed them as the mark took a single step backward. The attacking swords drove through the spot where the mark had been standing and shock registered in the gangers' eyes as they impaled themselves on each others' blades. The mark then casually reversed his hold on both weapons and drove them down, each blade taking its owner in the chest.

He turned and regarded Linus with what could only be described as an expression of contempt.

Henckle stood in slack jawed amazement at the display. He had been around awhile and had witnessed some marvelous displays of swordsmanship in his time, but he had never seen such precision and economy of movement as he had here. The man didn't waste a single move. Every step, every turn was made to the exact degree required to meet its goal.

Linus hadn't missed it either. Henckle knew the gang leader was outclassed and so did he. Why then was he smiling? It was then that Henckle remembered the eighth member of the Tollkeepers, the witchling...

"Rebina!" Linus shouted.

A small wiry girl of about thirteen years emerged from hidden doorway. Her dress was nothing but a dirty pile of rags tied about her waist with a rough cord. Her hair was matted and soiled, her face so dirty that it was impossible to see her features. Except for her eyes, which glowed a bright orange color.

Henckle wanted to shout a warning, but then light flared and it was too late. A great lance of flame shot from the girls outstretched hand and struck the mark in the chest....and promptly went out. Linus' grin melted from his face.

"Rebina, again!"

The fledgling pyromancer clapped her hands together and drew them apart, a great ball of white fire forming between her outstretched arms, then streaking toward the mark. Henckle covered his eyes as the fireball engulfed the man and exploded. When the wave of heat stopped he looked back down to the street below...and gasped in amazement.

The mark stood untouched while the bodies of the four Tollkeepers he had killed lay charred and smoking. The bored expression was gone from the man' s eyes now. He drew his sword and stalked toward the arrogant gang leader and his witch.

"Rebina!" Linus screamed, frantic now. "You must kill him. You must! Do it NOW. DO IT NOW, WITCH!"

The girls moved her arms out wide and threw her head back. The alley darkened abruptly as the girl drew energy from the very sunlight. The mark walked relentlessly toward them.

Linus shouted again. "NOW, NOW!!!!"

The girl looked forward suddenly.and hell broke loose. An explosion of flame erupted from the witch's body, tearing her to pieces, incinerating Linus instantly. The ground heaved, buildings shook, the alley became a living inferno. The shutters were blow from Henckle's window and the intense heat ripped the skin from his face and hands. There was a great CRACK!

The last thing Henckle felt was the sensation of falling as his home crumbled down about him.

-------

Blackness.

Total and complete.

The man floated in it. It caressed him, cradled him in sweet oblivion.

A line of jagged light struck him from out of nowhere then, bringing Pain.

The pain jolted him. He tried to shake it off, to return to his endless slumber, but it was too late. The line of light widened and the pain intensified. Another jolt, and another..

The man awoke.

It was still dark, but light filtered down to him from somewhere above. He couldn't think clearly, images assaulting him, but in incomprehensible fragments that made no sense.

[An intense flash.]

[A sword.]

[Fire.]

[A building falling.]

He grasped his head in his hands and pressed sharply on his temples. The pain lessened a bit and the man remembered. There was a battle in an alley. He had defeated his foes.he ALWAYS defeated his foes. He knew that, knew without understanding the details that he had never lost a fight. And he hadn't lost this one, either. He had seen his last foe die as the witch woman exploded. They were dead, and he was still alive. But the flames, he must be horribly burned.!

A quick inventory of his person told him he had been untouched by the flame. He was at a loss to explain the reason, but he felt it was only natural that this was so. He had NOT, however, escaped the falling debris from the shattered buildings.

He realized with a start that he was laying under a pile of rubble. Two walls had fallen against each other and he had been fortunate enough to be standing beneath the wedge they formed when they crashed together. He was unhurt, except for a nasty bump on the head.

No matter. He had received much worse injuries before and survived. He would survive this one, too. It was inevitable. He always survived. He..

He had no idea who he was.

Panic welled up inside him and he suddenly felt trapped. He surged to his feet, throwing boards and bricks to the side. It took him several minutes to get free of the rubble and when he had, he breathed easier. His mind calmed. He could reason this through.

He saw a sword peaking out of the debris and bent to retrieve it. The blade was undamaged, a piece of cloth tied with wire about the hilt. The name 'Thorsten Stiele' was embroidered on the cloth. He recognized this sword. It was his, he knew that instinctively, and his thoughts were confirmed as it slid easily into the empty scabbard at his left hip. The weight of it there was a familiar comfort. Thorsten Stiele must be his name, though his employers had called him something else.

Was he a mercenary then? He seemed to recall receiving payment for things he had done with that sword, but try as he might he could remember nothing specific. He searched his person for other clues to his identity. His loose clothing covered a type of form-fitting leather body armor. He felt an affinity for the armor and for the set of throwing knives he found secreted within. The clothing, however, seemed out of place. Had he been in disguise? He couldn't recall.

He found only one other item of interest, in the pocket of his trousers. It was a small leather scroll, tied with a black ribbon. He unrolled the scroll and read it. The scroll named a location, most likely a meeting place between him and a potential employer.

He couldn't remember much of anything beyond the events in the alley, but Thorsten Stiele was sure about one thing. He had never stood up an employer.

He shook his head one last time to clear it and made his way to the Dragon's Inn.

--------

[Thorsten Stiele - The Dragon's Inn, Montfort]

It took but one question to a passing citizen to get directions to the Inn. Thorsten arrived at the door in good time, but was disappointed when the sight of it triggered none of his missing memories. With a mental shrug, he entered the Inn.

The place was full tonight, but his eyes fell instantly on a distant table. The man seated there had white-blond hair and blue eyes and was finishing up what looked to be his second bottle of wine. He didn't recognize him, but Thorsten felt drawn to the man in a matter he couldn't describe. He weaved skillfully across the floor, but pulled up suddenly as a drunken behemoth half-breed plopped itself down in HIS chosen chair. He held the unexplainable prejudice he was feeling in check and moved up beside the table as the thing said, "We hear you want help. How much?"

"Isn't it customary to ask what the job is before you inquire about the wage,"

Thorsten found himself asking.

[Do'on and Amaranth]

Do'on turned at the interruption and looked at the man who was standing behind him. How did he get there? Trouble with drinking was, is that sometimes he lost track of what was going on. Though usually Amaranth was there to guard his back, and he never drank outside of this inn.

Well, hardly ever.

Not enough to matter.

Usually. Do'on still didn't think it was fair that Amaranth blamed him for what happened to "that nice Mr Mort."

He refocused his eyes on the newcomer.

"Why care if pay enough?" he grumbled, belched, then remembered to smile. This alarming expression was still on his face as he turned back to the stranger at the table, the one Amaranth had said wanted them.

Amaranth felt a moment of unease when she noticed the newcomer make for the stranger. She thought of intercepting him, then decided that Do'on was in no danger, not in this inn. She tried to figure out what was bothering her. The man seemed ordinary enough. Sword handle wrapped in some kind of cloth - as if to hide it. Possibly a stolen sword, which struck her as foolish, or a notorious one, which seemed unlikely. He hadn't been around before. Clothes and hair filthy with dust and soot. Possible spots of blood on his sleeves - recent fight? This guy looked as if he'd been through a minor war.

Could be the stranger would get more help than he'd bargained for. A smile formed on Amaranth's lips, which she hid by raising her mug of Hugh's second best.

Damn, this stuff was awful!

[Thorsten]

Thorsten regarded the half-breed with disgust. He was too drunk to cause much of a problem, but he was sure to interfere with Thorsten's negotiations with the client. And the thing had help.

Thorsten's eyes flicked to the woman at the table down the way. Yes, that was where the halfer had come from. She looked relaxed enough to all appearances, but Thorsten was sure she could spring into action in a moment's notice if the situation turned ugly. How should he handle this? ----

Thorsten slipped a long knife from the sheath of a passing customer and drove it into the right palm of the behemoth, pinning the thing's sword hand to the table. It tried to rise, bellowing loudly, it's struggles practically lifting the table from the floor. Thorsten rescued the client's wine bottles and in two smooth arcs brought them crashing across the face of the half-breed. The things eyes rolled up into its head and it crashed unceremoniously to the floor.

The woman was on her feet and headed his way, but Thorsten was already moving. He rolled to a nearby table and snatched the loaded crossbow from the pack of one of its occupants. He came up in a crouch and fired in one fluid move. The bolt slammed into the woman's chest ----

Yes, that's what he would do if things got out of hand. Strange, Thorsten felt an almost tangible pressure in his mind as he contemplated his course of action as if something was suppressing his violent urges. He had encountered such feelings before, powerful magical wards, but something in the back of his head whispered that they would be of no concern should he --- should he something. Thorsten couldn't remember what that something was. He decided it wasn't important and instead chose to focus on the client.

Thorsten snagged an empty chair from the next table and turned it so the back faced the client and then straddled the seat, pointedly ignoring the half-breed.

"My name is Thorsten Stiele," he said, pronouncing the words 'Torstin Shteeluh', "and I believe you have some business I would be interested in."

There was a very long pause.

"Bah!" Thorsten snorted in disgust as the client continued to stare off into space. "I'll be about should you come to your senses."

He stood abruptly and made his way to the bar itself where the inkeeper chatted congenially with several patrons.

"Can I get a room?" Thorsten asked. Then, seeming to realize the condition of his clothes for the first time, "And a bath. Definitely a bath. And the name of a good tailor."

[Later, back in the Dragon's Inn]

Some time later, Thorsten reentered the Dragon's Inn. He was clean now, his short, dusty blond hair settling in a comfortable, haphazard fashion as he stepped out of the wind. The tailor Hugh had recommended had done a fine job in fitting him with some decent clothing, which, while not of the most fashionable cut, left Thorsten free to move. He glanced over his new black leather breeches, white linen shirt and black leather vest. A new gray wool cloak finished the ensemble. Yes, the clothes were well made and suitably concealed his form-fitting leather armor. He had decided to keep the cloth with his name covering the hilt of his sword. He couldn't remember why, but there was a reason for the covering. He left it at that.

Thorsten's eyes roamed the inn and gauged the atmosphere.

"Subdued," he thought, "just as when I left."

He looked to the table where the white haired man had been, where he was still seated. Thorsten frowned. There was something about that man - something about a job. He headed back to the table and stood looking down at the man.

"Well," he asked flatly, "do you need me, or don't you?"

[M'Tago]

The man glanced once more over his shoulder. There was no sign of pursuit. Perhaps he had made it away cleanly after all.

It wasn't likely.

Still, he could see nothing that would indicate that his enemies had trailed him here. All the better. He would hate to have to make a scene by destroying them in a public place. It would be bad for any future business he might have in this town.

Satisfied that fate had blessed him with a short reprieve, M'Tago entered the Dragon's Inn. His black cloak billowed out behind him as he passed through the doorway, then settled dramatically around him in an artful pose. There was no chance in this, the cloak was enchanted to react to M'Tago's mental commands. Did he wish it, the cloak would remain absolutely still, even in the heaviest of windstorms.

While it was the flashiest of his creations, it was certainly not the only one M'Tago had chosen to bring with him on this journey. A ring graced every finger of his hands, each enchanted for a particular task. His other jewelry, bracelets, necklace, earrings and broach, also held powerful magic. M'Tago was a skilled artificer and woe be unto enemies that crossed him.

He approached the bar, pausing only briefly to admire himself in the full-length mirror set into the wall of the common room.

His hasty journey had done nothing to hurt his clothing. He was dressed entirely in black and every piece of clothing was enchanted to keep it whole and clean. His shirt was of the finest silk, his pants of velvet, as was his cloak. His boots were low-cut, soft dyed doeskin. A wide-brimmed hat finished the ensemble.

M'Tago doffed the hat and studied his profile. His hair was a bleached blond, almost white in color. It was of uniform length - to the middle of his back - and he kept it pulled back in the current fashion of his homeland. A small black leather lace at the base of his neck pulled the hair tight around his head. A black ribbon then ran the length of the ponytail, weaving in and out, to be tied at the bottom. His skin was very fair, almost to the point of being translucent. His eyes were an icy blue color, which was fitting, as there was no warmth in his expression. His cheekbones were pronounced, his nose long and aquiline, his chin a bit too pointed. To others, he seemed haughty, self-absorbed. To himself, he looked regal.

Turning from the mirror, he noticed a conversation taking place a few tables over.

[Thorsten]

The man continued to stare off into space. Thorsten shook his head.

"Fine, then. Your loss."

[M'Tago]

That the speaker was a swordsman was evident from the way he carried himself. And it looked as if he was in need of employment. M'Tago seized the opportunity.

"Perhaps that loss will be my gain."

[Thorsten]

Thorsten turned to face this new voice. He was startled by the appearance of the man in black. It was certain that he resembled this fellow at the table. Had he made a mistake?

Memories tumbled about inside his mind and a single image surfaced. He had seen a painting of this man, though he hadn't been wearing black at the time. No name came to him, but Thorsten was suddenly certain that THIS man was the one he had planned to meet. The man at the table was forgotten.

"You have a job for me."

[M'Tago]

It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes, I might at that. Should we sit?"

He indicated a vacated table and waited for the man to seat himself.

[Thorsten]

Thorsten pulled out a chair at the table, turned it around and straddled it.

[M'Tago]

M'Tago motioned a barmaid over and ordered a bottle of sherry. He then seated himself across from the mercenary.

"I have need of people who are good with a sword. Do you know how to use that thing?"

He pointed at the blade sheathed at the man's hip. He then rubbed the fire opal in the ring on his right index finger.

[Thorsten]

"I have never been beaten."

[M'Tago]

M'Tago was certain that the man was all bluster, but the fire opal remained cool to the touch. Should the mercenary have...exaggerated...his response, the opal would have grown hot. Forward AND skilled. His estimation of the mercenary grew.

"Excellent, though I hope I shan't have need to see you in action. I'm looking for some protection for a brief journey. My mission should not be dangerous, but traveling the roads of Ifrean, one can never be too careful."

NOW the opal heated. M'Tago knew very well the dangers his task entailed, but the mercenary didn't need to know about his pursuers OR the starstones just yet.

"I will be leaving Montfort in an hour. I expect to be gone for no more than a month. I'll pay the going rate for caravan guards plus a bonus if all goes well. What do you say?"

[Thorsten]

"Protection for a journey?" Thorsten thought. It didn't sound like the type of work he was used to, but his instincts told him it was vital that he accept. He gave a mental shrug.

"You provide the horse."

[M'Tago]

"Agreed. I will reimburse you the cost. Should you decide to keep the animal when our mission is completed, I will deduct the appropriate funds from your pay."

[Thorsten]

"I'll meet you back here?"

[M'Tago]

"In one hour."

[Thorsten] Thorsten rose smoothly from the chair and headed for the door. How was he going to find a horse in an hour?

[M'Tago]

The artificer watched the mercenary leave with a slight smile. The barmaid arrived with his bottle of sherry and a glass. He poured himself a drink and sipped at it.

"Excellent," he thought. "Just one or two more and I shall have all the distraction I need."

---------

[Drageon, Mist]

"A dwarf, a gnome, and a human, walk into a pub and sit down at the bar -"

"Mirro! Stop telling that same blasted joke!" The black haired dwarf commanded so savagely that he sprayed the gnome with droplets of spittle and dark ale. "Every time we stop for bit of drink, you repeat tha' same blasted joke. Lor', but I'm greatly sick of it. Just this once, STOP it!"

"Then the dwarf said, 'Gimme an ale.' " A perfect imitation of the dwarf's rumbling voice emanated from his tightly held mug. Without warning, or preamble, the volatile dwarf threw his drink and the back of his hand into the gnome's rather large-nosed face.

Like a reflection on darkened glass, the objects harmlessly passed through the gnome's abruptly troubled face. Mirro quickly raised a small brown hand and suddenly the dwarf, his mug, and spilled ale froze, as if time stood still, although the remainder of the world still moved undeterred.

"Blak, would you truly do that? Mirro mused, absently tugging on his snow-white beard while he studied the dark complexioned dwarf. "You must know about the wards in this place. Would you risk it? And the ale - humm, that could anger a few patrons."

Climbing down from the bar stool that was nearly as tall as he was, taking care not to disturb anything, the illusionist studied his work. His gray eyes bright with concentration, Mirro critically analyzed the angle of the dwarf's arm, the half empty mug, and the dispersion pattern of air-born droplets. He noted that a few were too large, while others were too small or of inconsistent reflectance. The gnome growled in self-directed contempt as he found a single droplet partially merged with the bar surface instead of splashing off, as it should.

Waving the ale droplets away as he would a swarm of gnats, Mirro climbed back onto his bar stool. He was briefly surprised to discover the dwarf's ghost-like hand and mug were still imbedded in his face. Taking Blak's wrist, Mirro bent the dwarven arm and dissolved the mug. "Blak, just look at the trouble you caused."

"Me?" The dwarf was in motion again and looking for his missing mug. Blak BoulderKin pivoted around on his stool to stare at the smaller gnome sternly. "You are the one, who has to practice night and day just to create a second-rate illusion. Lor', I'm not even here, so don't be blaming me."

"Second-rate! I'll show you second-rate." With a few shakes of the gnome's small brown hands, Blak shrank to a small fraction of his former size. Grabbing the scruff of his tunic, Mirro set the three-inch dwarf on the counter top. "Now you can second-rate all over the bar."

"Mirro Mist, turn me back right now! Do you hear ?" Blak demanded in a small voice that matched his reduced stature. The irate mini-dwarf stomped up and down the counter until he spotted Mirro's drink standing tall above his head. "Hold on here, maybe this ain't too wrong."

Suddenly a human-sized hand slammed down on the small illusionary dwarf, causing Mirro to jump in surprise. Momentarily confused, the illusionist watched his creation vanish in a smoke-like cloud.

"Mirro, what about that one?" The human's hand curled and blithely thumped twice on Mirro's small shoulder.

Feeling befuddled, as if he just woke from a dream, the gnome slowly looked up towards his human companion. Terentus Drageon was a young man of two and twenty summers, the youngest son of the youngest son of a very minor noble. He was tall and strong of build. His hair was spun gold. His physic was cast in bronze. Terentus, or Teren as his many friends called him, was well educated, overly proud, and at the moment, very deep into his cups. Lying upon the floor, at the foot of his stool, was his ever-present shadow, his loyal dog. It was a handsome White Spitz, about 5 hands tall with a long snow-white coat and a thick bushy tail perpetually curled over his back. The dog's ears were erect and animated; his muzzle was short and sharp. At odds with his soft coat and friendly curve of his tail was a cantankerous temperament and cold blue eyes; hence his name, Ice.

"Mirro? What about that one?" Teren anxiously repeated his question, never glancing down at the little gnome, speaking over the rim of his drink.

Looking around the inn's common room, Mirro eventually noticed the comely young tart that captured Teren's lecherous desires. The less drunk and less hormone controlled gnome also noticed the dangerous demeanor of the man she was with. "Teren, I don't think that would be wise."

The young man scoffed and wrinkled his golden brow. "I can best him; haven't had that much to drink." The sound of his master's challenge brought Ice to his feet, his ears forward and alert. There were very few things, indeed, that the belligerent dog loved more than a fight or a frantic chase, the tear on his left ear and the scars on his muzzle were testaments of that.

"Teren, we have better things to do."

It became obvious to the dog that there was no action forthcoming, so Ice laid back down and resumed chewing on his paw while his master continued his foolery. "Fine then. So what about her?"

Mirro spun about, following his friend's rudely pointed finger and spotted the barmaid. "Terentus, no!"

"Why not?"

"She - you know, don't you, - that it is only an illusion," Mirro said cautiously, glancing around, searching for eves-droppers. Spinning back towards the randy young man the older gnome continued in a conspiratorial tone. "You know, their clothes don't really vanish. That, what you ogle, is an image of my creation, not their actual flesh, not their -"

"Of course I know that!" Teren replied indignantly and then continued after some thought. "It is just, - that I like it."

Mirro groaned and buried his face in his hands. "Never, should I have shown you that trick."

"Now you are sounding just like Blak." Suddenly sobered by the gnome's withering glare, Terentus decided it would be wise to change the subject. "Did you write the notice?"

"Of course I did!" Mirro Mist was dressed in a dull gray cloak over a black leather doublet populated with a multitude of small pockets containing assorted spell components and tools of a dubious nature. His tunic and breeks were the same lackluster gray, while his tall boots and belt were flat black. From somewhere beneath his cloak, Mirro produced a fold of parchment. "While you were up-turning cups and down-turning harlots, I spent the entire day, alone, working in our room."

"Don't I know it, I could have used that room a time or two," Teren responded with a wink and a nod at yet another wench.

"You're incorrigible." Mirro half-chuckled and handed him the magicked parchment and noticed that Teren was hesitant to open it.

"What'll it do?" Teren asked nervously. "It wont hurt anyone, will it?"

"Teren, you have your armor, your bow, and your sword, you hurt people. I am an Illusionist, I merely help people hurt themselves."

"Very glib, Mirro. I suppose that wicked scythe or whip of yours has never caused pain." Undeterred, Terentus pressed the gnome for an answer to his original question. "What will the notice do?"

"The notice, does nothing!" The gnome, irritably snatched the folded parchment back and pocketed it once more. "The spell wont take effect for a few days yet. Besides, we need to raise a stake first. Our last job didn't pay too well and that blunder of yours cost us all our reserves."

"Her husband broke his routine -"

"And we got caught. We need some quick coin, the more the better."

"I overheard that guy hiring caravan guards."

Mirro once more followed his cohort's pointed finger, but this time it was indicating a man dressed in black. Mirro wasn't sure that he liked the look of him, he had a dangerous aspect and there was an aura of magic about him. But he looked wealthy enough, there was coin to be made from him, one way, or another.

"Let me do the talking." The gnome hopped down from his stool, walked to the strangers table and took a seat. Teren followed suit and straddled the backwards facing chair, his dog at his side.

"We hear you need assistance," Mirro said, watching the stranger's hands, and his eyes.

[M'Tago]

M'Tago's gaze passed from the small gnome to the imposing human. What was it about sell-swords and their propensity for sitting in chairs backwards? This one looked drunk, but it didn't bother him too much. They were only fodder, after all. The gnome, however....the gnome looked intelligent. The multipocketed tunic, coupled with that intelligence could mean one of two things: a thief, or a mage of some sort. A thief would be very useful in his mission. A mage.....that could be both an asset AND a liability.

"Indeed. I'm looking for some protection for a brief journey. I don't foresee any trouble, but one can never be too careful. I'll pay the going caravan rate. Your friend there is obviously a fighter. I could use another one of those. What do YOU bring to the table."

[Drageon, Mist]

Mirro smirked at the man's question, privately laughing at one of the world's ever-present constants: only a few took gnomes seriously. Even dwarves were habitually underestimated their smaller cousins, and arrogant humans were by far the worst, often viewing a gnome as childlike despite their age. But then, ignorance was an ally to both illusionist and thief alike. An ally that frequently allowed Mirro Mist to reap double rewards.

"Mirro can do plenty-" Teren jumped to the gnome's defense and was swiftly silenced by Mirro's gray-eyed glare. Deftly reaching into a breast pocket, the illusionist extracted the three-inch dwarf and set him upon the tabletop.

"Well, it's about time!" the mini-dwarf complained. Mirro redirected him towards M'Tago with a discreet nod. Battleaxe held ready, Blak BoulderKin spun about, swiftly growing in stature and ferocity until he stood on top the table, checks aquiver, glaring down the impudent stranger.

"Oh, he's an ugly one," the dwarf rumbled, fingering his axe. Suddenly, he was engulfed in a briliant burst of light and thunder rattled the inn. From the explosion's epicenter, appeared a beautifully buxom lass. Blouse cut low, and skirt slit to the hip, she sat atop the table with her long legs crossed above the knee.

"Oh, not at all, he very pretty," she said seductively. Reaching towards M'Tago, she snatched his drink and quaffed in one swallow. The table top suddenly grew a mouth and swallowed the her whole. Then it burped, spitting out M'Tago's glass which landed upright in its original location and once again full.

"Gimme more!" The table belched again and this time spit up someone's coin purse. With practiced ease, Mirro caught the purse and set it on top the now normal table. All around the common room, very few paid any attention to the show, as if it didn't exist for them. Which it didn't.

"There is no cretin, that I can't fool. There is no lock that I can't open. And I can hold my own in any fight." Mirro leaned back in his chair, a smug grin upon his face.

"My little friend has proven himself -" Teren interrupted himself, snatching up the purse. "Where did you get this?"

"From you. And, I'm not your _little_ friend." Turning back towards M'Tago, the gnome explained. "We have a business relationship, as do the three of us, if you have need of our skills."

"And the standard caravan rate will be fine -"

"For you maybe!" Terentus, either order your self another drink or simply shut-up." Mirro glared at his partner with simmering anger, then continued his conversation with M'Tago. "The standard rate is acceptable for the standard job. If you require anything extra, or if the job becomes complicated, I expect to be compensated appropriately.

"I also want to know some particulars." Mirro started ticking items off with his short brown fingers. "What is the size of your caravan? What is its composition? Are we guarding people, or cargo, and of what type? How many other guardsmen will you have? What are their skills? We have our own horses and weapons, do they? Are you procuring them? And if so, we expect some extra pay. Where is this caravan of yours going? How long will it take? And when are you planning to leave?"

[M'Tago]

The artificer watched the gnome's display with an air of feigned interest. So, he was both Mage AND Thief. Or rather, ILLUSIONIST and thief. The illusion had been good, that much M'Tago admitted to himself, albeit reluctantly. Had it not been for the throbbing of the ring on the pinky finger of his right hand, a small blue topaz in a square cut, he would have been hard pressed to recognize that magic was being used on him. A particularly handy ring, that one. Patterns in the throbbing indicated the type of magic being employed. M'Tago was rather proud of it.

Still, M'Tago had to hold back a chuckle. How very like a gnome to need to be flashy and showy to prove to others that he shouldn't be taken lightly. M'Tago never took ANYONE lightly. The smallest honey bee still had it's stinger...and for some people, even that small weapon was deadly. How many times in the past had the weak come to him and he had made them strong, had provided the stinger in the form of his Art. No, M'Tago never underestimated anyone. That was why he was still alive. That was why his pursuers had yet to catch up to him.

"Who said anything about a caravan? I said I was paying the 'caravan rate.' This job will be much simpler than a caravan crawl. You, your friend, and as of right now, one other 'guard', will be accompanying me on a short trip to the north. Two weeks there, two weeks back. You can ask the man about his skills when he returns from procuring his own horse. You are free to use your own mounts. I will, of course, finance their upkeep for the course of the journey. You are responsible for your own weapons.

"Your responsibilities for the job are simple. Keep me alive. Our trail will pass through unsettled areas and the wild can be ... unpredictable. Random encounters with undesirable elements are a risk. Dealing successfully with these *complications* will entitle you to a bonus. I am generous with those who skillfully perform their duties.

"Our time frame is rather short, I'm afraid. I leave within the hour. I believe this will compensate you for the inconvenience of the time schedule."

M'Tago tossed a small pouch onto the table.

"I hope that answers your questions. Please decide quickly. Time is drawing short."

[Drageon, Mist]

Mirro was confused, a caravan without a caravan? The gnome took pride in his attention to detail, both in his art and to events transpiring around him, but he missed something, somewhere. Perhaps he should have listened to Teren a little more closely. He glanced at the drunken young man, expecting find him sulking over his rebuke, but instead he was intently staring across the room, most likely at some scanty clad hussy. Mirro quickly returned his full attention to his prospective employer to avoid any further lapses of attention.

Mirro Mist winced slightly at the mentioned timeline. Although M'Tago's venture was relatively quick, it was still just a filler, a prelude to a larger score that he and Teren had previously planned. But misfortune reared its homely head and necessitated the rebuilding of their entire bankroll. It was an unfortunate setback, but at least they still had their heads.

While listening to M'Tago, the gnome reviewed their options; unless they could obtain work in town, they couldn't expect quicker pay, or as well. Besides, getting outside of Montfort, beyond the eyes of the town guard, had some potential benefit.

The Thief in Mirro, could fathom but two reasons for one such as M'Tago to hire guards on such short notice; knowledge of pursuit, or suspicion of ambush. Both involved something of value, which could be his life, but M'Tago didn't strike him as the nervous type. Perhaps, once the local law is beyond reach, the notorious Dragon Mist will hit another mark.

In opposition to the Thief, the Illusionist in Mirro doubted such overt plans would work. He noted M'Tago's shrewd behavior, the fingering of his topaz ring, and the strong aura of magic. Illusions were elusive things that worked best on the ignorant. If the target was aware of the truth, the best Mirro could do was to confuse and disorient. If M'Tago could detect illusions Mirro and Teren had to play him straight. M'Tago required more study before a course of action could be planed.

"We understand each other," Mirro said, pocketing the small pouch.

Contrary to the gnome's belief, Teren was neither sulking nor ogling a wench, he was instead watching a crazed man with no small amount of apprehension. His name was Repeeknon, and had cornered Teren earlier in the day with an incessant flow of questions regarding dragons and the origin of his name. Teren still wasn't sure what the loon was driving at, but it sounded as if he suspected Teren to be a dragon in human form. Oddly enough, that was indeed a family myth about some extremely distant and now long dead ancestor, but Teren firmly believed that that rumor was more of a poetic exaggeration than any semblance of truth. Regardless, the very strange man was watching their table and now headed their way. Last time, Teren had to feign urgent need of the privy to escape the man, he wasn't going through that again.

"Sounds fine. Mirro, we have to go now if we are to be ready within the hour." Teren grabbed the gnome by the arm and nearly yanked him from the chair before Mirro pulled away.

"Right then, we'll meet out front," Mirro said to M'Tago. Wondering what the sudden rush was all about, the gnome followed Teren and his dog up the stairs to their room.

[Repeeknon]

The man called M'Tago was sitting at a nearby table. Repeeknon knew something of him. He knew that he was running and chasing at the same time. Dangerouse bussiness. He had seen a dream-glimmer of what he was chasing after. Above all, Repeeknon knew that the man had much magic about him. Repeeknon preffered magic to other things; it was more in the realm of wisdom, not knowledge. Repeeknon preffered wisdom to knowledge simply because he had so little knowledge of things, and much wisdom. Repeeknon approached the man, walking up to behind him. "You try to run away and towards at once, my friend. Even if the targets of these actions are different things, it is dangerouse bussiness. And yet, I think I may join you." Repeeknon waited for a response.

[M'Tago]

M'Tago regarded the stranger with a certain amount of interest. How had he known??

"I never run from anything," he said haughtily. The fire opal on his finger heated in response to the untruth.

"It is true that I am looking for - aid - in accomplishing a mission. What makes you think your are qualified to join me?"

[Repeeknon]

"what qualifies you?" Repeeknon countered. "If you are asking me why I want to come, than your question will remain unanswered. However, if you want to know why you would let me come, than that is rather easy." Repeeknon reached inside his grey cloak, bringing out a small bag. "I do want to be payed, but I don't care for money," he said, spilling the contents of the bag on the table. "I prefer magic, and I suspect that you have quite a bit." Several chunks of platnum came tumbling out of the bag. "I can show you where I got that," Repeeknon said, "Or would you prefer that I tell you what I know about you?"

[M'Tago]

M'Tago didn't like where this conversation was going. He didn't know who the Viscount had sent after him, but this was just the kind of subtle manipulation that fit his style. If this was an agent for his pursuers, he had two options: Destroy him now, which would be difficult given the magnitude of the magical wards that protected the Inn, or accept him into his group so that he could keep an eye on him. If the man wasn't an agent, then M'Tago had nothing to lose in inviting his participation. Either way, the man would have to come with him. It looked like he'd be getting another guard.

Besides, M'Tago knew some great things he could make from platinum.

"I'm not sure who is purchasing who's services here. Are you offering to pay me in platinum so that you can come along? Or are you simply interested in my magical wares?"

M'Tago waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.

"It doesn't really matter. If you want to come along then you're hired. We can work out who is paying whom what after we're underway. We leave within the hour. Meet me outside the Inn at that time."

M'Tago stood. Four companions would be more than enough distraction for his pursuers. And if this *character* before him turned out to be a spy, so much the better. M'Tago was a master at sending out false information.

The artificer tossed a gold piece on the table to pay for the sherry and left the Dragon's Inn.

[Repeeknon]

Repeeknon picked up the platnum and put it back in the bag. What he had intended was that he give the man a supply of platnum for letting him come, than he would get payed in magic (a talisman, a Name, a symbol, a spell.. any magic at all) for helping on the way. But because he had not taken what had been offered, Repeeknon assumed that the first transaction was unnecesary. Repeeknon walked up to Hugh, and asked how much a week's worth of food was.. in platnum. After recieving a funny look, he picked out a medium sized piece from his bag, put it on the counter, and said "keep the change".

After getting the food, Repeeknon walked outside , sat in the grass, and waited.

(to be continued...)