The dark haired boy entered the bar, his loyal sandy blonde ‘body guard’ close behind. The dark haired one stood taller and more confident than the sandy blonde, who was looking around the bar with a frightened expression on his face. “I still don’t think this is a good idea, we should leave,” he whispered to the dark haired boy, who was about a head taller than him, yanking on his arm lightly to try and guide him towards the door. But the other boy ignored him. He was fixed on finishing what he’d set out to do now that he’d come this far. He wasn’t going to let four years of hunting go to waste. “At least wait until he’s leaving to talk to him, when he’s alone and on his way home. We have no idea what the rest of these guys will do if you go through with this,” the shorter boy spoke again, his fear evident in his whisper. The dark haired boy smiled weakly to himself.
“I can’t do that,” he told the shorter boy in a low voice, looking over his shoulder at him.
“And why not?” the sandy blonde snapped, his anger and frustration seeping into his words making him speak a little louder.
“Because,” he told him, his smile growing to almost a grin. “I have no idea what this guy looks like.”
The two boys stepped out of the doorway of the bar, letting the door slam behind them. A few of the people turned to look at them now, their stares going from curious to hateful when they noticed the new comers were young strangers. The bar wasn’t a very big one, but that was to be expected from a small town like this. It was dark and smelt strongly of vomit and alcohol. The paint on the walls was chipped and peeling away and most of the tables and chairs had something under them to keep them from wobbling on their uneven legs, or had chunks of their tops taken out. The bar man had his counter right up front, only a few feet away from the door, and the rest of the room was set up with a few tables on either side of counter. The longer tables were farther off to the side along the wall of the bar, and the tables just kept getting smaller as they came towards the counter until there were only bar stools left. Behind the counter was a small door frame, with no door attached, which led straight to some stairs. Probably the stairs that led up to where the bar man lived. The men in the bar were all particularly big and husky, due to the type of work they did, and had everything from a five O’clock shadow to a lengthy beard. They all looked dirty. Their hair was a tangled mess, their clothes were torn and covered in dirt, and they all looked about ready to just go home and pass out. The only exception to any of this was the bar man who was standing tall behind the counter cleaning his empty beer glasses with a rag, and wasn’t quite as dirty or husky as the others, but still looked as if he was ready to take on any of the men in his bar if needed.
“Hey kid, does this look like an Inn to you? Take your bathrobe and get out,” the bar man growled, referring to the long, not so white anymore, heavy coat the dark haired boy was wearing. It had cream cuffs and a large cream coloured belt attached to it. The coat went down almost to the floor, and the sleeves went just past his finger tips. The boy had it tied up loosely, so that it wouldn’t show off his figure, and had his arms crossed so nothing about him but his face, and the toes of his brown boots, were visible.
“I’m not a child, I’m and adult of twenty-one and I suggest you treat me as such,” he told the bar man calmly, giving him a smile. “And I’ll have you know this coat and its colours are a representation of wealth and power in my city.” The bar man laughed.
“Well here it means you’re about ready to take a bath,” he told him. A few of the other men in the room laughed in agreement at the stab at the boys clothes. “And I’ll be treating whomever walks into my bar in any fashion I’d like. Now get out! We don’t accept your kind here!” The bar man shouted his last two sentences with great force, and the glass in his hand shattered. Some pieces of glass fell to the floor behind the counter while others stuck to his hands, causing him to bleed and cry out in pain. Men at the far ends of the bar were now standing up trying to see what was making their bar tender yell. There was confusion about the room now. No one believed the man behind the counter had been able to squeeze the glass hard enough to make it shatter. “How did you do that?” The man hissed at the boy who was still standing in front of his door.
“Do what?” the dark haired boy asked a little smugger than he should have, giving the man a smile that said he knew exactly what he was talking about but wasn’t about to tell him.
“You little brat, get the fuck out of my bar!” the man yelled again. He dropped his now bloody rag onto the counter and rushed for the open bar gate. But as he approached it, it slammed downward shutting its self. The man reached out a hand and tried pulling up on it, but it didn’t budge. He tried again with both hands and all the strength he could muster, but still had no luck.
“It seems as if your gate’s a little stuck. Perhaps you should get it checked out,” the dark haired boy said, still unfazed by any of the bar man’s anger. He then turned, glancing over the crowed of angry men much tougher looking then him. “Are any of you a carpenter, or know anything about fixing a stuck door?” he asked them casually, taunting them with the fact that he wasn’t the least bit afraid of forty husky men all about ready to beat him senseless. “No?” he asked again. “Well then, I guess the bar man’s a little out of luck. It’s hard to jump over a counter with glass in your hand after all. But maybe one of you would like to finish his job of kicking me out for him?”
There was a murmur of voices as the men began to speak and look around at each other. It was still early in the evening which meant none of them had drank much yet and were still fit to get up and drag the boy out, but that also meant that they were all well aware of the fact that there was something strange about him, and none of them wanted to end up like the bar man who was bleeding heavily from his hands.
“Are you some kind of witch?” the bar tender called out to the boy as he wrapped his hands up in rags, finally seeing the need to stop the bleeding. The room went silent again. It was a farfetched accusation, but it was the same type of question that was on everyone else’s mind.
“Assuming that witches are women with an interest in black magic, I’m going to have to say no. Because I am neither a women nor do I have any interest in that area,” the dark haired boy told the room. “I’m simply a young gentleman who’s come here in search of someone.”
“And who might this someone be?” a brave man at the counter asked.
“A Mr. Gideon Stailzin,” the boy replied. The bar man froze, looking up at the boy, and the room broke out into a murmur of recognition at the name. The dark haired boy grinned.