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by Dalmar on Thu Apr 30, 2009 4:32 pm
Normally a saloon was a welcome place for a Drifter. It was a great place to get information as well find work, but for Trent it was a fight waiting to happen. Apparently someone took a great disliking to him and put nice little price on his head; he was greeted by his own visage as soon as he entered through the double doors. âThis you?â a man asked holding a Bounty Poster in front of him, he was a rather large fellow with a barrel chest and hands the size of hams. A rank odor of whisky mixed with tobacco escaped his lips every time he opened them. He was clean shaven with a square jaw and he wore an ammo belt that suggested he favored the automatic variety of ARMs, âwell?â
Trent looked closely at the picture, ânope, but I think I seen this fellow over in Virtue.â The look in the larger manâs eyes said he wasnât buying it, âLook I just came in here for a cold hard drink. Iâm not looking for trouble, but if youâre willing to gamble your life as a Drifter for a mere 5,000 gella, well, I suppose I canât stop you.â His voice remained smooth and calm as he spoke to the man, but his eyes told a different story. The light that was in them when he first walked in had died and been replaced with a cold emotionless stare. They were the eyes of a cold blooded killer, one that had seen many battles and the intent to kill was all to clear.
âHank, I think you should leave the feller alone. Somethinâ aint right about him.â The voice came from a smaller man with a thin beard sitting at a table behind them.
âYeâŠyeah I think youâre right. Sorry to bother ya mister.â With that Hank went and sat with his friend, and what was a deathly quite bar turned into a lively joint.
Trent walked up to the bartender and laid down some gella, âwhisky, strait.â The bartender poured him a drink without a word then turned to another customer. Trent downed the shot feeling the smooth liquid burn on the way down, âah⊠now that hit the spot.â Turning around he saw Hank and his friend doing there best not to look at him, grinning he turned back around and tapped the bar. Another drink was poured for him. Raising the glass he spoke, âTo Master Hower,â then downed the shot. Curious, the bartender asked to whom he referred. âThe man who taught me the Evil Eye.â
He was in good spirits when he left the bar, was even waving to the passing citizens of the bridge city, but the mood didnât last. One of the many things a Drifter learns when out in the Wastes is a keen sense to know when their being watched and Trentâs alarms were blaring. His eyes scanned the streets but saw no one that would give him such a feeling, he looked above him at the rooftops, still nothing. Maybe it was his imagination but his intuition was seldom wrong. Perhaps it was best to leave town. Before he made it to the south exit his observer revealed himself. It was the armored swordsman! âYou?â
âYou handled that little encounter quite well, but I was hoping for a fight. Perhaps I should up the price. Shall we say another zero?â The swordsman paused for a moment to observe his preyâs reaction, it was predictably calm. âIâm heading to the Ancient Alter. Become stronger and when we meet the battle will be glorious.â
Before Trent could protest the swordsman was gone. âThe Ancient Alter?â Tightening the grip on his sword he made his way back to the bar. âDoes anyone know where I can find the Ancient Alter?â
The bartender spoke up, âtake the rails to Saint Centaur, there should be people there who know about it.â
Trent nodded his thanks then headed to the rail station. Upon a riving he walked up to the ticket vender and bought one ticket to Saint Centaur.
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