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Snippet #1458460

located in Carmaine (City), a part of Return to Eternity, one of the many universes on RPG.

Carmaine (City)

The capital city of Carmaine.

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Apparently Raythe had chosen a very wrong day to sit down in the Commandant's Arms. He was officially on leave. He did not have to be anywhere in particular, and he had chosen here of all possible places to be. Now he found himself quite literally in the middle of a Carmanian tavern brawl. Tempers were flaring up all around him, augmented by corrosive alcohol; all corners of the room were vying for Raythe's attention, but he stayed focused on Cailen, the newest comer to the ensuing fray. He was unassuming by any account, displaying a firm resoluteness that might have been mistaken for the placid rigidity of the city's general populace. But he had waltzed into the pub as though he owned the place, and had attempted to defuse the situation, treating the Carmaine soldiers as though he owned them, too. He had even called one of them by name. But Cailen did not wear a Carmanian uniform, which only added to Raythe's vexation.

Raythe was on his feet, now, contemplating how exactly he was going to handle this predicament. Looking left and right and slowly inching towards the tavern's exit, all he could see were angry Carmanian faces. None of them stared back at him, but Raythe did not exactly want to stick around to find out what happened when one of them did. His nervous back-and-forth gaze caught and locked onto the fantastic spectacle of the half-filled mug of ale spiraling through the air with a lazy wobble, spewing its contents in all three hundred and sixty degrees. Raythe instinctively reeled from it and nearly walked face-first into the tavern door as it opened, offering yet another newcomer access to the chaotic mess that had minutes before been a relaxing afternoon. Just what was going on here?

Men were going down one after the other. Raythe wanted out. A fight in the middle of Carmaine was exactly how we was going to be arrested. As he took stock of the entire room from the vantage of the pub's foyer, he gained a grim countenance, suddenly very aware that he had made an incredibly poor decision today. He wasn't interested in who threw the mug. He wasn't interested in why Cailen was bossing around and assaulting guards. He wasn't even interested in the stunningly beautiful face that had just entered the room. He spun swiftly, his long black coat flaring up behind him, and reached for the doorknob.

"'Ey, pretty-boy!" called a massively angry voice from a distant corner. Looking back on it later, Raythe could never quite work out why he assumed the man was talking to him, or why he turned back around to face him. The soldier who had yelled was on his feet, slightly hunched over, and was advancing across the barroom floor flanked by two buddies. All three had longswords drawn and looked like they meant business. Their heavy, metal footfalls on the aging boards beneath, their ragged, alcohol-laden breaths, and the shifting chain armor beneath their stylized leather garb suddenly became the only sounds in Raythe's tiny little tavern-sized world. "Yeah, we know 'ho you are," the leader grumbled, one corner of his mouth beginning to curl. He looked like he was formulating some dastardly plan.

One which Raythe planned to never let see fruition. He was a Lieutenant in Siis' army; he was known for his skill and bravery. He did not fear these men, and he knew he could outwit and outfight all three of them if he had to. But he was in enemy territory, and killing a Carmanian soldier or three in plain sight was going to damage his reputation beyond all repair. His forays into the enemy country relied on his lying low. Though it seemed like his brother's men were finally beginning to recognize him, Raythe decided a tactical retreat was probably the best way to ensure not getting injured and not going to a Carmainian prison for a lifetime of torture and misery. Still not wasting the time to speak a word, he turned and reached wildly for the door handle once again. The mud-brown wood directly next to his outstretched hand suddenly splintered and exploded when an enormous bang resounded through the pub, and he recoiled immediately, his heart skipping at least two beats. Raythe pivoted on one boot-heel and leveled his gaze at the soldier who now held aloft a large pistol.

As far as Raythe was concerned, there was usually a bright side to most situations. The bright side to this one was that he now knew what he had come to learn: that Luther had in fact been distributing firearms en masse. For this lowly city guard to carry one was dire news indeed. So, he had come to the Commandant's Arms and obtained both information and trouble. What a bargain.

Raythe offered the trio of soldiers a sardonic grin. "Bad idea, chaps. If you know who I am, then you should know better." Was this tavern a breeding round for rotten plans, or what? In the blink of an eye Raythe retrieved his own pistol from the back of his belt and trained it on the foremost man, who held the smoking gun. Raythe cocked his head, as if to say, "What do we do now?"

The offensive soldier fired again, but Raythe's muscles had been tingling with anticipation, and he lunged to the side the instant he saw the opposing trigger-finger flinch. He collided with a round table and nearly tumbled into a useless pile on the floor, but managed to save himself with a deft role. If he had identified his opponent's weapon model correctly, he knew that it contained only one more shot, but he couldn't let him take it. As Raythe came up out of the role, he took quick aim and fired. With an enormous clap and a bright flash, the bullet screamed through the air and ripped through the soldier's wrist.

"Gwaaaah!" the maimed guard cried, dropping both his weapons to nurse his wound. He faltered, stumbling back behind his two cronies.