A/N: Hi everyone. Here's the next chapter of my story. It's taken a while for me to get around to it, but better late than never.
The pub was filled with a nauseating stench of rotting wood. It was a small pub, located inside the slums of Kavaria. At dusk every day, a consistent crowd would arrive, order drinks, and gossip about whatever might have been the flavor of the day. This night was no exception. But the usual crowd were joined by a stranger. The stranger, the barman noted, was unusually short. He wore a shirt typical of the slums: brown, ragged and unwashed.
The rest of his mannerisms were wholly unremarkable. Like most usual customers he ordered a mug of rum, sat down at the bar and waited. He did seem slightly more refined than most of the usual pub crawlers, though. He reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew a pipe. He struck a match and lit it before proceeding to relight the wax-candle in front of him that had been blown out by the wind.
The wooden bench soon filled up with the usual crowd, but the bar was unusually silent. And it was then the stranger spoke. He spoke clearly, making himself comprehensible despite his foreign accent.
“Who do these priests think they are anyway?”
There was a silence before anyone responded. “You an outta-towner?” a more familiar voice asked. The barman recognized it as Igan. It was unsurprising that he was the one who responded.
“What, you discriminate?” the short fellow asked. “You another one like them damned priests?”
“You don't wanna go around talking 'bout them priests like that,” Rheran said quietly. He was one of the more sensible of the locals.
“And what they gonna do to me?” he said, “Bunch of big talkers. That's what they is.”
Jintan, another of the locals, caught the barman's attention and winked. He had his usual mischievous glint in his eye. This was going to be entertaining.
“What they do to you?” he asked.
“Bunch of condescending bastards. That's what they are. The whole bunch of them.”
“Yes,” Jintan continued, “we got that part, but what they do to you?”
“Oh, it's not what they did,” the newcomer said, “it's what they didn't do.”
“What didn't they do then?” At this point the whole bar was listening.
“You know that massive library in front of their monastry?” he asked. There were several nods in the affirmative. “Well they didn't let me in.”
“You mean,” Igan said, “that you actually tried to get inside that library?”
“Yes.” He paused. “Why should they have all that knowledge to themselves?”
“They are the clergy,” Rheran tried to reason.
“So they think they're better than us for it?”
“Well,” a new voice said. Cayn had just entered the bar. “What do you expect us to do about it? Have you seen what them priests can do with that fire of theirs?” The barman welcomed Cayn's arrival. He would make this foreigner see straight.
“Perhaps,” the stranger replied. “Does it look similar to this?” He gestured to the flame of the candle at the bar that he had lit earlier. It had changed color. Instead of it's usual reddish-gold, it was now a striking crimson. The color of blood.
“So,” Cayn said. “What do you have in mind?”
“I think before we get onto that, we should get to know one another.” The strangers voice was controlled. He looked around the bar, his eyes flicking from person to person taking in everything they could about his new acquaintances. The smell of the rotting wood was all but forgotten. The candle in front of the newcomer had turned back to it's usual hue.
“You may call me Galdiff,” the stranger said. “Everyone does.”
The barman felt himself tense up at these words. He couldn't quite work out why, though.
