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A tavern. A place of intoxication. Of drunken singing and celebration. Not to say that such things did not appear, but they were rather infrequent. At least tonight that is. What did appear in frequency were the glares, of fear and hatred alike, with which Letifer was met. Thus was the reason for the cloth wrapped over his nose and mouth, and thus was why the bartender was not terrified at his sight, as he found himself upon the bar, a mug in his hand that will never be emptied, as he no longer had thirst.
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“Tell me,” he said to the bartender, “Have any children passed through here recently?”
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“Not a lad or lass to be seen since last year.” the bartender replied, “Not that I’m complaining, you know how the wee ones can be.”
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“Indeed.” Letifer responded, feigning a chuckle.
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“You fixin to get a new blade?” the bearded man asked, gesturing towards the shattered sword in Letifer’s belt.
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“No, I don’t think I’ll be needing one. It’s become somewhat of a memento.”
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“I see. A veteran I presume?”
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Letifer was silent for a moment. “Something like that.”
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It was then that the blast sounded in the street. A deafening crack in the air. It was one Letifer knew all too well. It was the blast of a musket.
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Confusion engulfed the tavern, some in fear, others curious. Letifer followed about half of the crowd into the street, while the rest cowered within the tavern. Keeping his hand on the hilt of his blade beneath his cloak, Letifer stepped through the door, seeing three cloaked figures.
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One was clad in black leathers, with a long coat, and an unusual leather hood upon his face, equipped with glass goggles and a pair of hoses, while the other two wore tattered, pointed hoods, that covered their eyes, and reeked of death.
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“Who are they?” Letifer quietly asked the bartender, who stood beside him in the street.
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“Soldiers from the east, conquered the mountain keep not a month ago.”
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This took Letifer aback, “They sacked Haltoth?”
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“You had family there?” The bartender asked, solemnly.
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“My son.” Letifer replied, with rage in his voice.
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The bartender was silent for a moment. “My condolences.”
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The masked soldier fired off another shot from his musket, gaining the attention of the newly gathered crowd.
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“Good folk of Belfennse! There is a monster among you!” shouted the masked man. “A Phantom! A ghost of war!”
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Murmurs began to circulate through the crowd, as eyes began to shift.
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“My comrades and I, are here to weed out this infestation. To terminate that which plagues you. To ensure your safety, from the risen dead!”
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As the Musketeer uttered this statement, his two compatriots began weaving through the crowd. Letifer could see them more clearly now. Ironic, that this Musketeer spoke of eliminating the undead, all the while, he commands a pair of Rott-kin. Festering, and ridden with foetid, gangrenous wounds, they scoured the crowd with diligence uncharacteristic of a walking corpse. They were sniffing. Yes, searching for a gap in the scent that, to them, would be overwhelming. The scent of blood. For they knew that Letifer’s veins ran dry.
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Letifer uttered through gritted teeth, “What is your name, barkeep?”
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“Morton. Folks call me Mort. Why do you ask?”
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“Listen very carefully Mort.” Letifer whispered, “I am going to grab you, and I am going to put a blade to your throat, but under no circumstances will I harm you.”
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“What in the bloody hell?” the man exclaimed quietly.
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“I just need you to cooperate for a few moments, we all walk home without a scratch.”
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“You're-” Mort stammered, “You’re the phantom!”
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Thus, Letifer grabbed the man, fulfilling his promise to put a blade to his throat.
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“Another move and I bleed him!” he shouted.
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The Musketeer turned to face Letifer, as the crowd around he and his “hostage” had cleared to a considerable distance.
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“Well then.” he said, “Is that not convenient?”
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With that, he raised his weapon. Immediately, Letifer shoved the man to the ground, hoping to spare him from the blasting pipe. However, as another shot rang out, the munition found itself lodged in Letifer’s battered armour.
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The impact sent him falling to the muck, where one of the two Rott-kin dove atop him, and began to claw at his face. As such, the creature tore from him the cloth that disguised his deathly visage, before having a broken blade driven into its neck.
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As Letifer got to his feet, his grisly visage became clear, evoking gasps and screams from the folk around him.
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The masked gunner cried, “Ten silvers to whomever brings me his corpse!”
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Thus, Letifer hastily made his leave. Treading briskly through the muck, he twisted and turned through the streets, weaving past the crowds. And he was quickly tailed, by the second of the Musketeer’s Rott-kin, who pushed through the mobs, while most cleared a path out of fear.
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However, as the creature turned the corner into an alleyway, it found a blade in its chest. It did not stop there however. The creature continued to thrash about on the tip of Letifer’s blade, barely held back by the hilt and the length of his arm. Finally, he slammed the walking corpse into the wall, withdrawing his blade and driving it into its temple.
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However, his victory was short lived, as another munition slammed into his shoulder, causing him a great recoil, as a pale green liquid dripped from the wound. Knowing it would take time to reload, he charged the soldier, tackling him to the ground. However he was kicked off, and barely evaded a strike from the Musketeer’s bayonet.
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The two began to strike at one another. Not an elegant dance of blades, but rather a rough brawl, a grapple, ridden with mud and blood. That is, until a figure clad in a vermillion cloak cast back the Musketeer.
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“Up my lord!” she shouted, “There is a battle yet to be fought!”
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Despite the confusion, Letifer did not object. He got to his feet, and joined the cloaked fighter in combat. The two attacked the Musketeer from either side, as he struggled to hold them back. As the moments went on, stains of bled fluids began to appear on the soldier’s black garb.
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However, it was not to be. For the Musketeer swung his bayonet in a wide arch, the wicked serrated blade severing the left hand of the cloaked fighter, evoking a cry of pain.
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With some pale reflection of adrenaline, Letifer took the soldier by the head and bashed it into the wall repeatedly, sending the Musketeer into a percussed state.
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“Haste!” Letifer shouted, as he took the cloaked woman’s remaining hand, “We can lose him in the crowd!”
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Quickly recovering his hood and mask, he and the fighter made their way into the crowded streets, as the Musketeer did no more than wait. Unlike many, he knew when to admit defeat. And he now knew where the Fell-kin would be.
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