Braeburn Tavern

The Braeburn Tavern was not its usual self this evening. The pungent odor of ale, urine and the infamous “Braeburn special” was surprisingly faint; the rough timber floor devoid of the typical half inch layer of dirt, dried blood, and decaying food stuffs. Each crudely carved table had been robbed of its low, sputtering candle stub and replaced by bright torches. A cheerful fire crackled and hissed in the long neglected hearth. The place looked down right respectable; much to the dismay of the owner, Mr. Pastard.
His only customers this evening were the very source of his despair. They had arrived only two days prior and all claimed to have arrived separately, having never met before. Yet somehow they all found themselves gathered around the same table in his filthy beloved tavern, throwing dice and discussing where they were going—none of them seemed to know-- and the great deeds they would soon accomplish.
This was bullocks. Obviously they were a highly trained elite band of mercenaries hired by some noble to assassinate some other noble. That was the only logical reason such an odd assortment of armed strangers would appear all at once in Sandsburg. “Only,” pondered Mr. Pastard, “One would think an elite group of assassins would be slightly more subtle.”
The group in question had been sitting at the very same table the night they arrived. Amongst the loud and exuberant shouts of the local patrons, they had been engrossed in their game and conversation. To an outsider, their discussion seemed of a rather important and serious nature, perhaps due to the lack of ale at the table, and it was assumed by any observers that the five were intimate companions. The truth, however, was that none of them remembered exactly how they had come to be there or even how they came to be sitting at the same table in a strange tavern. There seemed an odd connection, something drawing them together though not a one of them could place it. They all had a similar goal of greatness, perhaps solely that lofty goal was forcing their paths to cross. Perhaps they would need to rely on each other, as laughable a notion as that was. Besides they were all strangers, how could they be trusted?
Delfar was certain he could obtain his goal, whatever it might be, with out the aid of others. He was a warlock after all; they were quite accustomed to a solitary existence. “This whole meeting is unnecessary,” he thought, but despite his intense desire to leave them with a few choice words and a stunning view of his fine rear, he was compelled to remain. He began to consider his seeming inability to depart, but dismissed the notion when he realized that further reflection might suggest he was not in complete control of a situation, and that would just be ridiculous. He tuned back into the conversation at hand, as it was his turn to roll.