Cryker Reywynn - Meeting Hall
Cryker had not walked the streets of New Eden in many decades, and walked through them then almost as if he were gliding in a dream. He craned his head as he looked at all the changes that had happened in his home town since he had left, a faint, content smile upon his face. He wondered why the streets he walked through, silent except for the sound of his well worn boots, were empty as they were. Some solemn gathering, perhaps, he knew not. There were guards, though, fewer in number than he remembered, lining the walls of the city, so he knew nothing was out of place. Still, though, it unsettled him some. He had expected to see the lively and happy city that he had ignored in his youth, and forced to leave behind. It was but one day to him, though, there would surely be many in the future that were more lively.
Cryker was passing by the old orphanage when the world began to grow dark. He looked up to the sky to see the sun rapidly vanishing beneath thick, black, foul clouds. Glancing around, he found his feet being quickly eveloped in a cold, unnatural fog, and he shivered, even underneath his warm clothes and armor. He used one hand to bring his blue and grey hood over his head, and dropped the other, almost instinctively, to his sword.
Cryker's breath was coming in short puffs of steam from the cold by the time he reached the entrance of the underground. Making his way into the Meeting Hall, he was on the verge of a laugh, when he was stopped short with a mailed fist to his chest, and a knife to his throat. He held his hands up slowly and calmly. He had a poorly hidden smirk across his face. "I see security hasn't slipped in the past century." He said flatly.
"Do you know where you are going, wanderer?" The guard replied, eyes narrowed. His voice was raspy, and he stood tall and thin. next to him, his companion stood with a cruel smirk, with hands on the pommels of his long daggers worn about his hips.
"To the mess hall, preferably. Or the pits. To be honest, I'm not quite-" Cryker was cut short by the knife pressing sharper against his throat, on the verge of drawing blood. He didn't recoil from the blade, but his smirk faded to a neutral expression.
"Answer me plain, or you'll be fed to the hounds in the pit." The guard interrupted with a snarl. "I don't know you, but you certainly don't look like one of us. I should have stabbed you the moment you came in here, but I'd rather not have to clean up the mess. But," he continued, now with a sadistic smile, "I'm more than happy to do so if you don't tell me who you are and what you're doing here."
"Cryker Reywynn. Sworn in a hundred and twenty three years ago. Servant of the Mother of Blue. Half elf in good standing. Sword for Devon Ironsides of the pit, if he's still the Pit's Master." Cryker replied, sentences curt and his voice cold.
"A hundred and twenty three years?" He paused to think a moment. "Bullshit, we don't-" The guard began angrily but hesitant, unconsciously easing pressure on the knife.
"Check the records. Cryker Reywynn. One hundred and twenty three years ago." Cryker said, rebuking him.
"Hey!" The guard shouted back, increasing pressure on the knife once more, drawing a thin trickle of blood from the point. "You'll speak when-"
"Send your friend if you'd like, I can wait here. What's a few more minutes of waiting? And," He glared angrily at the guard. "ease up on the knife, or you'll find yourself in a lot of pain very soon."
The guard contemplated a moment before letting go of Cryker and stepping back, and holding the knife at arm's length. He turned to the other guard, and rolled his eyes. "Go." He said. "Outsiders wouldn't know half of what he's said. But we need to be sure."
"Of course." Cryker responded indifferently, lowering his arms, and smearing the drops of blood with his sleeve. He waited for the other guard to return.